^-» 


THE  GARDEN 
OF  DREAMS 


Chi 


rcaao 


MCMXII 


\c\. 


o. 


COPYRIGHT 

A.   C.    McCLURG   &  CO. 

1912 

Published  September,  1912 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  England 

Second  Edition,  October,  1912. 


THE  RALPH  FLETCHER  SEYMOUR  Co. 

FINE    ARTS   BUILDING 
CHICAGO 


TO    ALL    THOSE    WHO    HAVE    EVER   WANDERED 

WITHIN    THE    LOVE-GIRT   REACHES    OF 

THE  GARDEN  OF  DREAMS 


2131793 


CONTENTS 

PROLOGUE 

PART  I.       The  House  of  Dreams    ...  29 

PART  II.     Down  Dreamland's  Lane  .    .  57 

PART  III.    The  Deserted  Orchard    ...  75 

PART  IV.    The  Night  Garden 99 

PARTY.     The  Hearth 115 

PART  VI.    Ye  Darklynge  Wode  ....  137 


THE  GARDEN  OF  DREAMS 
PROLOGUE 


THE  GARDEN  OF  DREAMS 


PROLOGUE 


WITH  long,  swinging  steps  the  man 
skirted  the  little  valley  and,  facing 
the  rising  sun  took  the  road  to  the 
right  that  wound  upward  over  the  mountain. 
There  marched,  visualized  before  him,  recol- 
lections of  other  times,  when,  bareheaded  even 
as  now,  freckled-faced,  and  often,  dirty,  he  had 
trotted  happily  along  intent  on  the  morning's 
business  —  the  filling,  perhaps,  of  his  shiny 
pail  with  the  wild  strawberries  which  grew 
— scarlet  drops  of  concentrated  lusciousness 
beneath  their  protecting  leaves  of  green — in 
the  wooded  outskirts  of  old  Al  Somer's 
meadow.  Almost  he  was  tempted  to  turn 
aside,  to  slip  down  through  the  fields  at  his 
left  in  search  of  them,  until  he  remembered 
that  they  would  not  be  ripe  for  a  month  or 
more. 

"The  spring  is  late  this  year,"  he  mur- 
mured regretfully. 


12  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


Ah  well,  it  could  afford  to  be  late.  For 
him  it  would  always  be  spring  hereafter.  He 
threw  back  his  head,  unconsciously  his  hands 
sought  his  pockets,  his  lips  drew  up  in  a 
whistle — the  tune  was  one  that  had  been  pop- 
ular with  the  country  lads  when  he  was  a  boy. 

His  thoughts  kept  up  a  running  commen- 
tary on  the  text  supplied  by  the  long  ap- 
praising glances  that  took  in  every  detail  of 
the  way,  identifying  the  recollections  of  his 
youth,  marking  the  changes  which  time  had 
wrought. 

Jonas  Dempsy's  big  barn  was  not,  after  all, 
such  a  pretentious  aifair  as  he  had  remembered 
it.  And  how  they  had  let  it  run  down!  It 
badly  needed  a  coat  of  paint.  Why  would 
they  use  that  dull,  muddy  red?  He  smiled 
a  bit  ruefully  over  old  Jake  Manderson's 
farm.  That  long,  rambling  house,  once  the 
height  of  his  ambition  —  it  had  been  white 
with  green  shutters  then  —  was  an  ugly, 
nondescript  drab.  And  how  low  the  ceilings 
must  be.  What  if  disillusionment  awaited 
him  at  the  end  of  his  journey!  Unconsciously 
his  steps  began  to  lag.  He  made  pretense 
of  noting  the  growing  things  on  the  way; 
examined  the  elderberry  bushes  to  see  how 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  Jj 


soon  one  might  expect  the  fragrant  clusters 
to  spill  their  snowy  loveliness  along  the  road. 
He  even  veered  out  of  his  path  at  the  shy  call 
of  a  quail;  but  he  caught  no  glimpse  of  the 
insistent  wooer.  As  he  came  to  a  bend  in  the 
road  his  reluctant  feet  stopped  of  their  own 
accord.  He  dared  not  turn  that  corner  — 
yet.  He  sat  down  on  a  rock,  and  still  smiling 
ruefully,  sought  encouragement  from  the  dis- 
tant view. 

Ah  yes!  the  view  was  all  right.  Time  had 
played  no  tricks  with  the  everlasting  hills 
whose  "utmost  purple  rim, "  the  country  folks 
would  tell  you  proudly,  was  in  another  state 
more  than  thirty  miles  away;  it  was  always 
wrapt  in  a  tender  haze  —  now  blue,  now 
softly  gray,  now  rosily  purple.  They  were 
not  awesome  crags  —  nothing  terrifying  in 
their  rounded  outlines.  Some  giant  sculptor 
with  gentle  humor  had  pressed,  molded, 
rumpled  up  the  dear  old  clay  a  bit  —  that  was 
all.  The  fields  were  velvety  with  winter  rye, 
the  spring  moisture  exuded  everywhere,  steam- 
ing up  a  golden  mist  in  the  warm  sunshine. 
Below  him,  the  slow,  graceful  curve  of  the 
valley  was  soul-satisfying  as  ever.  A  slender 
thread  of  water  gleamed  white  beneath  a 


14  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


passing  cloud,   then   blue   again  —  reflecting 
the  sky. 

With  a  sigh  of  relief  the  man's  eyes  swept 
the  distance,  and  with  rapidly  reviving  courage 
he  took  the  few  steps  which  crossed  his  morn- 
ing's Rubicon.  Here  the  road  widened,  tak- 
ing a  slight  drop,  and  while  a  fork  continued 
on  up  to  the  right,  the  main  thoroughfare 
stretched  out  straight  and  smooth  and  white 
over  a  bit  of  plateau ;  and  beyond,  some  hun- 
dred yards  ahead  of  him, was  the  low  stone  wall 
he  had  so  longed,  yet  feared  to  face.  Well,  at 
least  it  was  in  good  repair  —  not  a  crumbling 
mass  of  nigger-heads  —  and  covered,  as  he 
remembered  it,  with  Virginia  creeper  and 
honeysuckle.  He  drew  in  a  long  delighted 
breath;  then,  without  wasting  more  time, 
walked  eagerly  down  to  where  the  wall  began. 
The  gate?  He  would  have  ridiculed  the  sug- 
gestion. Oh  yes,  there  was  a  gate  farther 
down,  and  another  one  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  property,  and  a  carriage  drive  not  fifty 
feet  away  —  but  he  was  in  no  mood  to  enter 
sedately  through  a  gate.  Putting  both  hands 
carefully  among  the  stones,  that  he  might 
not  damage  the  clinging  vines,  he  vaulted 
lightly  over. 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  15 


And  then  this  man  did  a  curious  thing. 
Apparently  forgetting  that  he  was  in  full 
sight  of  anyone  who  might  have  been  on  the 
road,  he  threw  his  hat  in  the  air  as  a  school- 
boy might,  swooped  down  upon  it  in  the  grass, 
and  catching  sight  of  a  white  violet  in  sur- 
prised proximity  to  his  hand,  plucked  the 
flower,  kissed  it,  almost — I  think — would  have 
cried  over  it,  but  for  the  fact  that  even  as  he 
scrambled  somewhat  awkwardly  to  his  feet, 
from  behind  a  clump  of  flowering  dogwood 
there  stepped  a  wondering  girl,  the  "inevi- 
table girl"  the  man  would  have  said  had 
he  thus  suddenly  encountered  her  in  the  pages 
of  a  book. 

So  far  as  he  could  see,  the  girl  had  no  right 
there;  and  yet  she  was  part  of  it  — which 
is  the  very  nicest  thing  he  could  imagine  him- 
self saying  of  a  person  under  the  circumstances. 
For  in  the  picture  thus  formed  —  a  Co  rot- 
like  study  in  greens  and  blues  —  the  tender 
grey  of  her  dress  was  the  harmonizing  note 
for  which  the  man  was  moved  to  glad  thanks- 
giving. 

Someone  many  years  ago,  someone  with 
taste  and  refinement  and  feeling  for  all  things 
living,  had  taken  this  bit  of  the  world  and  put 


i6  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


a  fence  around  it,  and  the  people  who  had  since 
then  been  fortunate  enough  to  own  the  house 
of  which  one  saw  ravishing  glimpses  through 
the  trees,  had  been  wise  enough  not  to  attempt 
to  improve  much  upon  the  adjoining  grounds. 
They  had  tended  and  cared  for  each  growing 
thing  without  that  insolent  moving  around  of 
nature's  handiwork  that  more  impertinent 
ones  venture.  At  least,  so  thought  the  man, 
till  a  basket  on  the  girl's  arm  attracted  his 
attention  and  filled  him  with  sudden  wrath. 
For  the  pretty  wicker  thing  was  full,  spilling 
over  with  violets,  white  violets  —  pulled  out, 
no,  dug  out  (he  saw  the  trowel  in  her  hand), 
roots  and  all. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  demanded  brusquely. 

"The  gardener,  sir,"  she  said,  wide-eyed, 
with  quickly  drooping  mouth  and  quivering 
chin. 

"Whose  gardener?  and  what  are  you  doing 
here?"  he  continued,  brandishing  the  single 
flower  he  held  in  his  hand  at  the  basket  of 
its  innocent  fellows.  "How  dare  you  trespass 
on  private  grounds,  committing  vandalism  — 
larceny  —  and  murder?" 

She  stared  at  him  affrighted  and  took  a 
single  backward  step,  but  the  thicket  of  dog- 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  77 


wood  barred  her  retreat.  Man-like,  her 
silence  and  embarrassment  pacified  him,  and 
he  concluded  more  gently,  but  still  chidingly: 

"Didn't  you  know  that  these  were  private 
grounds?" 

She  eyed  him  curiously. 

"/  knew  it;  I  thought,  perhaps,  that  you 
did  not." 

He  smiled  —  at  which  her  confidence  grew, 
and  she  continued  naiVely: 

"We  have  no  sign  bidding  trespassers  be- 
ware of  dogs,  and  no  dogs  but  old  Fidelity, 
who  would  not  hurt  a  kitten;  but  the  front 
gate  is  always  open,  as  no  doubt  you  did  not 
know,  and  our  visitors  usually  enter  that 
way." 

At  this  it  was  his  turn  to  look  embarrassed. 

"I  suppose  you  thought  me  quite  mad. 
But  I  still  do  not  understand.  You  speak 
of  your  visitors;  do  you  live  here?" 

She  nodded. 

"I  see.  But  how  does  that  happen,  may 
I  ask?" 

"I  told  you  —  I'm  the  gardener;  and  when 
you  frightened  me  so  terribly  and  berated  me 
so  cruelly,  I  was  only  digging  up  a  few  violets 
—  there  are  so  many  here  —  to  plant  in  the 


i8  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


fairy-ring.  Are  you  not  ashamed  of  your- 
self?" 

"I  am!"     It  was  said  very  seriously. 

"And  if  you  had  not  been  so  rude,  I  might 
have  shown  it  to  you." 

"But  if  I  offer  to  carry  the  basket  and  make 
myself  useful?"  he  begged. 

She  laughed,  transferring  the  basket  to  his 
eager  hands. 

"I  accept  your  help,  but  I  warn  you  I  do 
not  care  for  useful  things  in  my  fairy  garden." 

"For  what,  then?" 

"Only  for  dreams."  She  was  leading  the 
way  over  the  soft  carpet  of  grass;  in  this  part 
of  the  grounds  there  were  no  paths.  "  This  is 
the  Garden  of  Dreams,  and"  —  she  pointed 
poutingly  to  a  large  square  board  facing 
the  road  —  "that  is  the  only  nightmare  in  it." 

"A  sign?  Ah,  I  see!  Tor  Sale.'  What  a 
pity!  It's  a  fine  old  place.  A  comfortable 
house,  too,  I'll  be  bound." 

She  waved  the  compliment  aside  impa- 
tiently. 

"Oh,  the  house  is  well  enough  to  eat  and 
sleep  in;  but  the  garden  —  the  garden  is 
heaven!  Wait,  you  have  not  seen  it  yet." 

"How  long  has  it  been  for  sale?" 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  IQ 


She  stopped,  petrified.  Was  she,  perhaps, 
gossiping  to  a  prospective  buyer?  He  read 
the  thought  and  waited  teasingly. 

"I  —  I  —  oh,  I  don't  know.  Eight  —  per- 
haps ten  years.  You  don't  want  to  buy  it, 
do  you?" 

Her  anxiety  was  so  patent  that  he  laughed 
outright. 

"  Who  knows  ?  I  might,  perhaps,  if  the  price 
were  reasonable.  What  do  they  want  for  it?" 

She  gasped. 

"Oh,  thousands  of  dollars,  heaps  of  money, 
ever  so  much  more  than  you  would  think  it 
worth, unless — "she  looked  at  him  more  and 
more  suspiciously  —  "you're  not  an  agent, 
are  you?" 

"No." 

"I  thought  not.  You  see,  agents  do  not 
usually  come  over  the  wall." 

Her  sigh  of  relief  was  so  profound  that  again 
he  laughed.  She  looked  back  at  him  re- 
provingly. 

"You  wouldn't  think  it  funny  if  you  had 
to  receive  them.  They  come  nosing  around 
into  everything  from  the  hotbeds  to  the  attic, 
finding  fault,  patronizing,  and  criticising.  And 
as  for  the  people  in  search  of  a  summer  home, 


2O  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


they  suggest  improvements  before  they  are 
well  inside  the  front  gate.  It's:  'Look, 
Mother,  we  could  have  a  fountain  here!' 
'What  a  dandy  place  for  a  hammock!'  'Oh, 
Father!  wouldn't  those  marbles  you  bought 
in  Italy  look  lovely  in  there  among  the  ever- 
greens ?'  and  so  on.  I  hate  them  all.  They're 
bent  on  spoiling  my  Garden  of  Dreams." 

"But  perhaps,"  he  suggested  gently, "they, 
too,  have  dreams." 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  She  shook  her  head 
violently.  "  You  might  have."  Her  clear 
grey  eyes  searched  his  deeply  for  a  moment. 
"Yes,  I'm  sure  you  have  dreams.  Tell  me, 
do  yours  ever  come  true?" 

"Sometimes.  One  came  true  last  week, 
and  fast  upon  its  heels  another  crystallized 
into  a  fact.  And  then — "  he  hesitated, 
while  his  glance  took  in  the  whole  of  the 
slender,  half-boyish  figure  beside,  yet  just  a 
little  in  advance  of  him  —  "yes,  I  think  I 
may  say  that  to-day  another  dream  —  a 
dream  that  I  had  almost  given  up  of  late 
—  has  come  true." 

She  shook  her  head  reproachfully. 

"You  must  never  give  up  having  any  dream; 
because,  no  matter  how  bad  things  get,  you 


The  Garden  oj  Dreams  21 


can  always  go  away  by  yourself  and  dream 
them  different,  unless — " 

Her  voice  grew  very  sad. 

"Unless  what?"  he  prompted. 

"Unless  you  make  the  irreparable  mistake," 
she  said  softly. 

"Which  is?—" 

"To  sell  your  future  dreams  for  present 
realities." 

"  Do  you  think  you  —  either  of  us  —  could 
ever  do  that?" 

She  stopped  beside  a  great  rock,  dropped 
on  the  hillside  by  some  gigantic  hand  in  sport, 
and  looked  at  him  wistfully. 

"You  see,  it  isn't  always  a  case  of  sale,  or 
barter  even.  Sometimes  it's  just  a  mad,  free 
gift.  At  least,  in  a  woman's  life  it  often  hap- 
pens that  way,  don't  you  think  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  admitted  gravely. 

"And  oh,  the  pity  of  it,"  she  continued,  a 
sudden  flood  of  divine  compassion  glorifying 
her  face.  "  I  always  think  of  The  Lay  of  the 
Brown  Rosary.  You  know  it? 


If  we  whose  virtue  is  so  weak  should  have 

a  will  so  strong, 
And  stand  blind  on  the  rocks  to  choose  the 

right  path  from  the  wrong?'" 


22  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


He  nodded  and  softly  finished  it  for  her: 

'"To  choose  perhaps  a  love-lit  hearth  in- 
stead of  love  and  heaven  — 
A  single  rose,  for  a  rose-tree  which  beareth 
seven  times  seven."' 

"You  see,"  she  continued  softly,  "of  late 
I  have  been  threatened  quite  often  with  losing 
my  Garden  of  Dreams."  She  scooped  a 
handful  of  dried  leaves  from  a  large  fissure  in 
the  rock  and  drew  from  beneath  them  a  couple 
of  thin  volumes  wrapped  in  oiled  silk. 
"This,"  she  said  with  a  laugh,  "is  one  of  my 
bookcases.  Over  in  that  hollow  chestnut 
is  another.  Down  by  the  brook  I  have  an  old 
tin  box  hidden  under  a  stone;  there  is  no  lock 
on  it,  for  who  would  want  to  lock  up  Steven- 
son and  Jefferie's?  They'd  die,  you  know. 
But  you'll  be  surprised  how  many  hiding  places 
you  can  find  in  a  garden  like  this  for  a  book  or 
two.  And  they  help  to  make  one's  dreams 
worth  while.  But  then,  when  a  dream  para- 
dise threatens  to  be  swept  away,  and  someone 
offers  you  solid  reality  and  abundance  —  can 
you  understand  ?" 

"Yes.    But  you  chose" — 

"The  dreams,  of  course.  I  could  not  lose 
the  dreams." 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


"I  am  glad,"  he  said  simply. 

"Here  comes  mother;  she  has  seen  us  from 
the  kitchen.  Mother  is  the  care-taker;  I 
have  looked  after  the  garden  —  with  Jim  to 
help  me  —  ever  since  father  died." 

"And  who  is  Jim?"  he  asked,  half-jeal- 
ously. 

"The  hired  boy.  Mother,  I  am  showing 
this  gentleman  over  the  grounds.  Why  — 
what  has  happened,  dear?" 

The  mother  acknowledged  the  presence  of 
the  stranger  with  a  preoccupied  nod,  spoke 
to  her  daughter  in  a  worried  aside,  and  hurried 
back  to  the  house. 

"Oh!"  moaned  the  girl;  and  then  again 
softly  to  herself:  "Oh  dear!  Oh  dear!" 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  man  with  con- 
cern. 

"The  house  is  sold.  Mother  has  just  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  the  agent.  To  lose  it  — 
after  all  these  years.  You  don't  know  what 
it  means!" 

"I  can  imagine." 

"I'm  afraid  I  cannot  take  you  around  just 
now.  I  must  help  mother  get  the  house  in 
readiness  for  the  new  owner." 

"Let  that  wait!" 


24.  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


At  the  note  of  command  in  his  voice  her 
eyes  widened,  and  the  surprise  in  her  face 
deepened  as  he  continued: 

"Let  us  go  down  to  the  fern-nest  together. 
There  used  to  be  a  great  tree  with  a  solid 
seat  —  just  large  enough  for  two  —  built  in 
its  branches.  Is  it  still  there?" 

"Why  —  yes!  But  then  —  you  know  the 
place?" 

"Indeed  I  do.  And  on  the  way  I  am  going 
to  tell  you  about  a  boy,  a  freckle-faced  country 
boy  who  sold  blackberries  and  wild  straw- 
berries and  blueberries  in  season  to  the  rich 
folks  who  lived  in  that  dear  old  house  on  the 
hill.  They  liked  the  boy,  and  he  did  odd 
jobs  about  the  place  for  them.  And  this  grew 
to  be  his  Garden  of  Dreams.  When  he  was 
about  fifteen  his  parents  died,  and  because 
he  was  ambitious  he  went  to  the  city;  and 
there  he  worked  a  little,  studied  a  little,  and 
worked  some  more.  And  he  made  money, 
and  received  a  certain  measure  of  what  the 
world  calls  fame.  But  always  he  was  dis- 
satisfied; for  although  he  clung  to  his  dreams 
and  would  not  sell  them,  even  when  he  was 
starving,  they  were  never  again  so  beautiful, 
so  fresh,  and  so  true,  as  the  ones  he  had 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  2$ 


dreamt  as  a  boy,  lying  at  full  length  on 
his  back  among  the  ferns  or  cuddled  in  the 
arms  of  a  tree.  One  day,  just  after  he  had 
been  paid  quite  a  large  sum  of  money  for 
one  of  the  dreams  he  had  worked  hard  to 
put  into  a  form  that  others  might  enjoy,  he 
picked  up  a  paper,  and  there,  advertised  for 
sale,  was  his  Garden  of  Dreams  —  with  the 
house  attached,  of  course.  Fancy  how  he 
felt!  He  rushed  the  purchase  through  with  a 
haste  that  scandalized  the  agent,  and  having 
disposed  of  all  his  business,  took  a  night  train 
that  he  might  see  the  sunrise  on  the  road. 
All  the  way  he  was  afraid  he  would  be  dis- 
appointed; it  seemed  a  dubious  chance  on 
which  to  risk  one's  all.  But  the  moment  he 
came  in  sight  of  the  place  he  forgot  everything 
except  that  at  last  he  owned  what  he  had 
always  wanted;  and  he  was  so  glad  that  he 
jumped  the  wall,  and  —  well,  you  saw  the 


rest." 


The  girl  had  been  looking  at  him  half- 
incredulously,  vacillating  between  tears  and 
laughter.  Now  she  gave  a  little  satisfied  sob. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  it's  you!  Since  I  had 
to  lose  it  —  I'm  glad  it's  to  someone  like 
you." 


26  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


"But  you  are  not  to  think  of  losing  it," 
he  said,  much  as  though  he  spoke  to  a  child 
whom  he  feared  to  frighten.  "You  and 
your  mother  are  to  stay  here  just  as  you  are  — 
for  the  present.  Afterward  — "  he  smiled,  as 
one  who  forsees  long  summer  days  of  rest  and 
longings  fulfilled,  and  love,  perhaps  —  "after- 
ward we  will  talk  of  other  things,  compare  our 
dreams  together;  shall  we?  Only  one  as- 
surance I  ask  now;  that  you  will  not  think  of 
me  as  an  intruder.  Blot  me  out  of  the  land- 
scape entirely,  ignore  my  existence  if  you 
wish,  but  don't,  I  beg  of  you,  think  of  me  as 
an  alien." 

Excitement  had  flooded  the  girl's  face  with 
color.  Slowly  the  rosy  veil  was  lifted  and  left 
her  rather  pale,  but  her  eyes  shone  with  clair- 
voyant certainty. 

"You're  not!"  she  said  quietly.  "I  think 
you  belong  —  in  the  Garden  of  Dreams !" 


PARTI 


THE  GARDEN  OF  DREAMS 


THE    HOUSE    OF     DREAMS 

tA  letter  from  Samuel  Garth  Winters"} 
to    his    friend,    Mathilde    Bursey\ 

May  20th,  19 — 
Dear  Mathilde: 

TOU  are,  it  seems,  a  truer  {prophet 
than  I  had  supposed.  Your  con- 
gratulations, which  followed  so 
promptly  upon  my  arrival,  sweetly  sympa- 
thetic though  they  were,  held  yet  a  tender 
little  note  of  reproachful  forecast:  I  would 
forget  the  city  that  had  acclaimed  me;  I 
would  forego  the  friends  of  my  strenuous 
middle-age  —  Ah,  Mathilde!  how  could  you? 
—  and  slip  blandly,  smoothly  into  a  sort  of 
second  childhood  —  so  near  senility  you  think 
me,  then?  —  finding  in  my  native  village  a 
life  so  wholly  apart  from  the  old  that  I  must 
seem  as  unrecognizable  to  such  as  had  known 
me  in  my  early  prosperity  as  —  well,  as  a  frog 
might  to  some  little  tadpole  acquaintances 
he  had  distanced  by  a  premature  meta- 
morphosis. Mathilde,  you  beautiful  mother- 

29 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


woman  you,  I  shall  never  slip  from  your 
sweet  influence,  be  assured,  never  cease  to 
want  the  friendship  you  gave  me  when  I  so 
needed  it  —  when  it  seemed  as  though  but 
for  you  and  the  dear  family  life  into  which 
you  admitted  me,  I  might  indeed  have  sold 
all  my  dreams  of  future  greatness  for  a  neces- 
sary loaf  of  bread.  All  that  is  fifteen  years 
ago,  Mathilde,  and  I  owe  all  that  I  am  to  you 
—  and  through  you  to  the  dear  man  who, 
while  he  lived,  made  your  wish  his  law.  But 
in  those  fifteen  years  I  have  never  failed  to 
thank  God  for  you  each  night  and  entreat  him 
for  you  and  yours  each  morning.  Do  you 
think,  then,  the  realization  of  my  castle  in 
Spain  and  a  hundred  acres  of  land  will  make 
me  forget? 

Yet  such  is  the  procrastination  of  the  happy 
idle  that  though  I  fully  intended  to  answer 
your  letter  at  once,  I  have  actually  seemed  to 
lend  credibility  to  your  doubts  by  my  long 
delay.  Forgive  me,  Mathilde;  it  has  been  the 
dear,  peaceful  silence  of  fulfilled  desire,  and 
now  that  I  have  broken  it,  I  shall  be  posi- 
tively garrulous.  Indeed,  looking  back  over 
the  last  fortnight,  I  wondered  what  possible 
excuse  I  could  offer  for  my  silence.  The  days 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  31 


have  never  seemed  so  generously  long,  the 
minutes  never  so  roundly  full  of  perfect 
seconds.  Since  I  came  to  live  in  the  House 
of  Dreams,  three  short  idyllic  weeks  ago,  I 
have  fallen  naturally  into  the  habit  of  early 
rising.  I,  who  used  to  be  the  laziest  and  heav- 
iest of  sleepers,  often  find  it  hard  to  stay  in 
bed  till  five  o'clock.  I  think  the  birds  have 
something  to  do  with  this,  for  they  are  awake 
long  before  the  sun.  Perhaps,  when  their 
days  of  courtship  and  nesting  are  over  and  the 
fledglings  have  taken  to  the  open,  the  morn- 
ings will  be  more  quiet  —  but  I  shall  miss 
them.  After  all,  this  is  their  month,  the  time 
when  their  song  rises  to  its  utmost  perfection, 
so  I  do  not  grudge  them  their  few  hours  of 
early  practice. 

On  the  morning  after  my  arrival  I  awoke 
cold,  so  cold  that  as  I  drew  the  blankets  up 
about  my  shoulders  and  rubbed  my  nose,  I 
wondered  if  I  had  not  after  all  mistaken  the 
month  and  the  season. 

As  though  in  ironic  answer  to  my  doubt, 
came  through  the  silence  the  clear,  clucking 
call  of  a  robin.  Three  times  his  summons 
was  repeated,  and  not  until  it  was  taken  up 
by  a  dozen  voices  did  he  break  out  into  his 


32  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


joyous  warble.  A  cat-bird  mewed  plaintively 
from  the  lilacs  and  shrubs  that  hedge  the  lawn, 
then  rollicked  mischievously  through  its  ever 
surprisingly  beautiful  song;  a  little  chippy 
thrilled  a  sudden  spirited  greeting  to  the  sun, 
and  a  wren  from  its  nest  in  the  eaves  bubbled 
and  rippled  with  fussy  good-humor. 

My  window  looks  out  over  the  long,  slant- 
ing shingle  roof  of  the  veranda,  above  which 
a  stately  walnut  tree  waves  its  many-fingered 
branches.  There  are  two  robin  nests  now  in 
this  walnut,  and  during  these  lazy  morning 
hours  I  have  had  the  joy  of  hearing  their  songs 
change  from  the  stress  and  storm  and  poign- 
ant sweetness  of  courtship,  to  the  solemn 
peace  and  pride  of  assured  possession.  They 
have  quickly,  too,  become  accustomed  to  the 
inquisitive  face  that  haunts  the  window,  and 
one  bold  adventurer  has  lately  grown  so  self- 
possessed  as  to  vocalize  on  the  sill  —  peering 
in  the  while,  impertinently  curious  and  criti- 
cal of  my  morning  ablutions. 

But  on  that  first  day  I  buried  my  face  among 
the  pillows  that  smelt  a  bit  musty  to  a  hyper- 
sensitive nose,  and  because  I  felt  absolutely 
at  peace  with  myself  and  the  world,  went 
calmly  off  to  sleep  again  right  in  the  middle 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


of  the  first  movement  of  their  symphony  — 
for  which  discourtesy  I  hope  I  have  since 
atoned  by  awaking  at  the  opening  notes 
of  the  reveille,  and  religiously  remaining  at- 
tentive to  the  entire  performance. 

In  fact,  I  usually  try  not  to  go  back  to  sleep 
at  all.  It  is  so  good  to  lie  there  in  the  clear, 
cold  dawn  and  count  my  many  new  posses- 
sions, and  dream  of  others  yet  to  be  added  to 
them.  I  am  like  a  child  at  Christmas  —  so 
overwhelmed  with  my  sudden  wealth  of  toys 
that  I  do  not  know  which  to  play  with  first. 
I  say  to  myself:  "To-day  I  will  explore  the 
attic;  no,  I  will  keep  the  attic  for  a  stormy 
day  —  this  promises  to  be  fine;  I  will  visit 
the  orchard.  But  first  I  must  see  if  the  little 
wood  that  clings  to  the  side  of  the  hill  wears 
the  same  primeval  aspect  it  held  for  me  when 
a  boy."  The  Major  would  never  permit 
a  tree  to  be  touched  —  although  no  one  from 
the  Hall  ever  walked  there  —  and  you  could 
climb  straight  up  a  rather  precipitous  slope 
and  come  out  on  a  little  ledge  of  virgin  forest. 
If  other  feet  had  ever  wandered  there,  the  soft 
carpet  of  dead  leaves,  inches  and  inches  thick, 
held  no  trace  of  them.  The  trees  grew  very 
close  together,  tall  and  slender  for  the  most 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


part,  save  where  some  parent  hickory  or  maple 
had  a  quarter-of-a-century  start  of  the  en- 
ergetic young  saplings  around  it.  It  was  a 
great  place  for  the  spring  and  early-summer 
flowers,  the  most  timid  of  them  taking  ad- 
vantage of  their  safety  to  show  their  faces 
quite  boldly.  It  was  the  favorite  haunt  of 
the  pippsessewa  and  her  fragrant  cousin,  the 
shin-leaf.  There  the  Solomon's  seal  waved 
its  greenish  plume,  the  partridge-vine  allowed 
its  pale-faced  twins  a  peep  at  the  world  from 
under  their  blankets  of  dead  oak  and  hickory 
leaves,  and  even  before  these,  you  could  find 
the  star-eyed  liverwort  and  the  snowy-petaled 
blood-root  —  and  arbutus  too,  but  in  rather 
scanty  measure. 

At  the  memory  of  this  treasure-trove  I 
start  from  bed,  eager  to  renew  my  explora- 
tions—  but  always  I  find  some  other  outlet 
for  the  day's  energies.  The  fact  is,  I  do  not 
wish  to  revisit  these  woods  till  Miranda  is 
with  me. 

Miranda !  Ah,  now  your  sensitive  patrician 
nose  scents  a  romance;  and  even  at  this  early 
stage,  dear  lady,  I  am  prepared  to  hope  that 
you  are  right.  Perhaps  you  remember  that 
I  told  you  in  my  first  hasty  note  that  I  had 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


been  confronted  on  my  arrival  by  a  most 
adorable  comic-opera  shepherdess  who  as- 
sured me  that  she  was  the  gardener.  I  think 
I  also  mentioned  that  Miss  Rowen  was  the 
daughter  of  the  Prof essor  Rowen  whose  bio- 
logical work  had  brought  him  much  fame 
but  little  money,  and  whose  poor  health  had 
led  him  to  exchange  his  professorship  for  an 
extended  lease  on  life  in  the  homely  capacity 
of  care-taker  of  this  mountain  estate.  I 
imagine  that  the  name  Miranda  was  his  choice, 
but  I  wonder  what  prophetic  intuition  was 
responsible  for  that  christening.  Miranda! 
Dear  lady,  it  suits  her.  Some  day  I  shall  try 
to  describe  her  —  I  have  only  general  impres- 
sions so  far.  There  is  an  evanescent  quality 
of  beauty  and  temperament  that  defies  im- 
prisonment. 

Well,  on  that  first  morning  as  I  left  the 
breakfast  room,  I  found  the  hall  door  open, 
and  had  a  glimpse  of  Miss  Rowen  armed  for 
the  day's  work.  It  was  something  of  a  shock. 
I  had  fancied  her  playing  at  gardening,  she 
had  looked  so  dainty  and  unprofessional  with 
her  basket  of  violets  on  her  arm.  Now  she 
wore  an  old  dress  of  faded  blue,  with  a  big 
blue  apron  all  cut  up  into  pockets.  All  sorts 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


of  ominous  things  peeped  from  these  pockets; 
a  trowel,  a  pair  of  shears,  twine,  and  some 
little  sticks.  She  was  very  busy  transferring 
a  nursery  of  plants  from  their  wooden  box  to 
the  row  of  little  holes  which  she  had  gouged 
out  neatly  in  the  unoffending  earth,  and  over 
in  the  path  stood  a  wheel-barrow  heaped  high 
with  newly  cut  grass. 

She  did  not  see  me.  I  watched  the  pretty 
picture  for  quite  a  time  before  I  stepped  out 
to  her. 

"Good  morning,  Miranda." 

She  started,  straightening  up  suddenly. 

"How  did  you  know?" 

"Know  what?" 

"My  name." 

"I  didn't.     I  wasn't  even  guessing." 

"Then  you  meant  Shakespeare's  Miranda?" 

"Surely.  And  Prosperous  —  and  Ferdi- 
nand's. (I  muttered  the  last  under  my 
breath  so  that  she  did  not  hear  me.) 

"I  see.     I  thought  — " 

"It  was  a  happy  chance,"  I  said  gallantly. 
"The  name  suits  you,  which  is  more  than  most 
names  do  their  owners.  But  Miranda  — 
may  I  call  you  so  as  a  reward  for  my  per- 
spicacity?—  I  have  a  quarrel  with  you. 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  37 


Why  have  you  cut  my  grass  ?" 

She  looked  distressed. 

"I  told  mother  you  would  not  like  it.  I 
suppose  a  lawn  must  be  kept  as  a  lawn,  but 
I  always  feel  as  reluctant  to  cut  it  as  a  mother 
over  the  first  shearing  of  her  baby  boy's 
ringlets." 

"Not  a  bad  comparison,"  I  grumbled.  "It 
is  indeed  as  ungraceful  as  the  average  mas- 
culine hair-cut." 

Miranda  laughed. 

"Just  now  it  is;  but  in  a  day  or  two  it  will 
be  lovely;  soft,  velvety,  wonderfully  green — a 
clean-faced,  irreproachably-groomed  lawn, sir!" 

It  was  my  turn  to  laugh. 

"But  that  is  a  man's  work.  Where  is 
Jim?" 

"Oh  no!  Jim's  province  is  the  kitchen 
garden.  It  is  too  early  for  him  to  offer  you 
much  —  but  you  shall  have  some  romaine  for 
dinner." 

"Good!     It  is  the  queen  of  salads." 

Miranda  smiled  at  my  gastronomic  ecstasy. 

"You  speak  like  an  epicure,  yet  your  looks 
belie  you." 

I  raised  offended  eyebrows  with  an  attempt- 
ed severity. 


38  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


"Am  I  then  so  lean  and  hungry-looking?" 

Miranda  studied  me  thoughtfully,  and  spoke 
with  analytic  care. 

"An  ascetic,  not  by  choice  but  by  habit,  a 
habit  that  grew  on  you  as  the  result  of  neces- 
sity, perhaps,  and  was  not  relinquished  with 
the  passing  of  the  need  for  it." 

Wasn't  that  clever?  The  description  was 
not  flattering,  yet  because  of  something  in 
Miranda's  eyes  I  could  not  resent  it. 

"You  are  right,"  I  said,  half  apologetically. 
"I  suppose  I  have  even  earned  the  title  of 
misert  since  I  kept  the  pose  of  self-denial  long 
beyond  the  days  of  real  poverty.  Now  I 
know  that  I  practiced  economy  all  this  time 
merely  that  I  might  some  day  own  the  Garden 
of  Dreams.  Since  I  have  that — "  I  smiled 
to  myself,  waved  my  hand  gayly  to  Miranda, 
and  sauntered  on  down  to  see  if  perchance 
I  might  find  a  single  winged  cyclamen  left 
to  mark  the  place  where  the  daffodils  and 
crocus  had  long  since  bloomed. 

I  could  not  very  well  explain  to  this  serious- 
minded  child,  with  her  adorable  conscience, 
that  since  I  had  obtained  that  for  which  I 
had  denied  myself  I  would  probably  never  do 
another  stroke  of  work  again  as  long  as  I 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  39 


lived,  nor  could  I  tell  her  that  I  was  beginning 
to  look  on  all  the  joys  that  life  had  hereto- 
fore denied  me  with  a  dogged  determination 
to  own  them  —  to  make  them  mine.  To 
live,  to  love,  to  learn;  I  care  not  a/o>  ever  to 
produce  anything  again.  Therein  I  show 
conclusively  that  I  am  no  genius  —  Mathilde 
and  a  few  generously  inclined  critics  to  the 
contrary.  I  admit  to  myself  without  reserva- 
tion that  my  work  has  not  satisfied;  that 
always,  always,  I  have  been  hungry  —  hungry 
with  an  appetite  that  refused  to  be  appeased 
with  the  more  or  less  skillful  juggling  of  words, 
the  chess  game  of  plot  and  counterplot,  the 
play  of  sentiment  and  fancy. 

How  is  it  that  you  alone  of  all  my  friends, 
you  —  whose  arms  and  heart  have  never 
known  what  it  was  to  be  empty  —  you,  with 
your  adorable  daughter  and  her  infant 
son,  and  Alfred  with  his  enthusiasms  and 
riotous  affections,  have  alone  shown  me  that 
sympathetic  understanding  that  can  never 
have  been  born  of  experience,  have  let  me  lave 
my  lonely  heart  in  the  flood-tide  of  your  life, 
have  done  your  best  that  I  should  never  feel 
the  futility  of  my  make-believe?  You  are 
very  wonderful,  Mathilde,  and  it  is  because 


4-O  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


of  all  that  you  are  that  I  write  so  to  you. 
Long  ago  you  shared  with  me  all  that  you  had; 
long  ago  I  made  a  vow  to  share  with  you  what- 
ever of  joy  and  light  there  might  come  into 
my  life. 

But  all  this  is  far  away  from  that  first  day. 
I  remember  thinking  that  another  spring  we 
would  have  thousands  of  snowdrops  and 
quaint  blue  squills  peeping  up  beneath  the 
evergreens,  while  the  strip  of  meadow  on  the 
south  side  should  be  gladdened  with  narcissi 
and  daffodils.  Which  reminds  me  that  I 
must  commission  Miranda  to  order  the  bulbs 
before  I  forget  it. 

Dear  Mathilde,  you  will  write  soon  again  — 
will  you  not?  However  much  I  err  towards 
you,  you  are  always  there  with  your  divine 
forbearance. 

My  love  to  the  children.  If  anything  I 
have  said  can  tempt  you  from  your  barren 
city  streets  to  gladden  me  with  the  visit  you 
so  graciously  promise,  I  shall  not  have  written 
in  vain.  The  lad  must  be  nearly  through  his 
university  work.  Surely  then  you  can  both 
come. 

Devotedly  yours, 

SAMUEL  GARTH  WINTERS. 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  4.1 


VA  letter  from  Samuel  Garth  Winter"! 
Lto   his  friend,   Mathilde   Bursey] 

June  2nd,  19 — 
Dear  Mathilde: 

THIS  morning  we  were  cut  off  from  the 
world  by  a  sheet  of  silver  mist  —  a  mist 
that  promptly  resolved  itself  into  a 
slanting,  steady  downpour.  It  is  the  first 
real  storm  since  my  arrival,  and  I  think  I 
never  heard  such  music.  I  lay  abed  two  long 
hours,  listening,  and  I  have  about  decided  that 
of  all  the  wood  instruments  I  prefer  a  shingle 
roof  —  provided  it  is  properly  played  upon 
by  an  orchestra  of  raindrops.  When  you 
make  us  a  visit  I  shall  try  to  arrange  for  a 
shower  for  your  especial  benefit. 

I  was  down  late  for  breakfast.  Miranda 
was  just  bringing  in  a  glass  bowl  of  wild 
strawberries. 

"In  all  this  rain!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Jim  brought  them  over — the  very  first  of 
the  season.  You  must  make  a  wish  on  them." 

"How  do  you  do  it?" 

"You  should  close  your  eyes  and  say  the 
wish  over  three  times  —  while  the  berry 
slowly  melts  into  fragrance  and  flavor  on  the 
tongue." 


42  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


"Have  you  had  some?" 

"There's  only  a  cupful,"  she  deprecated. 
"Those  green  leaves  are  deceiving." 

"Nevertheless" — 

"But  Pve  eaten  them  every  spring  all  these 
years  that  you  have  hungered — " 

"I  should  still  be  unsatisfied  unless  there 
were  someone  to  share  them.  We  will  make 
our  wish  together." 

We  went  through  the  ritual  reverently,  and 
as  our  eyes  unclosed,  laughed  half-guiltily  — 
like  foolish  children. 

"I  will  tell  you  my  wish" —  I  began,  but 
Miranda  interrupted  in  mock  horror: 

"You  mustn't!  You  will  never  get  it  if 
you  do." 

I  reflected  that  she  was  probably  right,  and 
contented  myself  by  adding  with  a  smile: 
"Some  day!" 

"Oh!"  said  Miranda,  with  a  touch  of  con- 
fusion, and  left  me  to  my  eggs  and  bacon. 

I  tell  you  this  because,  in  a  manner,  it 
answers  your  question.  Dear  lady,  come 
and  see  for  yourself!  You  will  find  Miranda 
a  ravishing  mixture  of  all  that  is  most  allur- 
ing in  child  and  woman.  To  aspire  to  her 
seems  profanation.  She  is  twenty-three,  and 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  4.3 


I,  alas !  am  forty  —  an  elderly  sort  of  forty, 
too,  at  best.  But  I  ask  myself  sometimes  if 
it  isn't  perhaps  because  I  never  enjoyed  the 
gay  insouciance  of  a  care-free  youth.  I  was 
old  at  sixteen  —  older  far  than  I  am  now  that 
I  can  snap  my  fingers  at  the  wolf  and  his 
snarling  clan.  Sometimes,  Mathilde,  I  feel 
very  young;  at  such  times  Miranda  eyes  me 
with  that  maternal  tolerance  that  is  always 
present  in  the  maiden's  heart  for  the  one  man. 
Whereupon  I  shake  my  bells  and  tell  foolish 
stories  and  am  a  very  clown  —  for  joy  in  her 
divine  forbearance. 

You  do  not  tell  me  when  Arthur's  work 
will  be  over.  When  will  you  feel  free  to  make 
us  that  promised  visit?  The  dear  lad  has 
surely  earned  a  long  vacation.  I  wish  you 
could  both  be  induced  to  spend  it  here.  Con- 
sider it,  will  you,  Mathilde? 

As  ever,  affectionately  yours, 

SAMUEL  WINTERS. 


44  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


VA  letter  from  Samuel  Garth  Winters'} 
Lto   his  friend,    Mathilde    Burseyl 

June  8th,   19 — 
Dear  Mathilde: 

TOU  are  no  doubt  right,  dear  lady. 
Such  days  and  days  of  industrious 
idling,  of  leisurely  pottering  about 
the  house  and  grounds,  will  destroy  my  ca- 
pacity for  serious  work.  At  least,  I  hope  so. 
Do  not  forget,  Mathilde  —  indeed,  I  know 
that  you  do  not,  and  say  this  more  to  justify 
myself  to  myself  than  to  you  —  that  I  have 
worked  all  my  life,  and  for  the  most  part 
very  seriously.  I  think  I  was  not  more  than 
five  years  old  when  I  had  my  daily  tasks. 
No  harm  in  that,  you  understand,  except 
that  they  lasted  all  day.  No,  no,  Mathilde! 
you  cannot  chide  my  ambitions  into  a  tardy 
resurrection.  There  is  a  task  which  I  hope 
to  set  myself  some  day,  to  which  I  will  gladly 
lend  all  the  energies  of  my  remaining  years. 
It  is  a  duty  which  you  have  nobly  ful- 
filled, and  the  objects  of  your  labor  of  love 
rise  up  and  call  you  blessed.  To  see  that 
which  is  born  in  the  likeness  of  the  beloved 
one  and  of  yourself  grow  into  adolescence 
at  your  side,  is  to  have  the  chance,  at  least, 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  45 


to  remold  one's  youth  nearer  to  the  heart's 
desire.  (With  apologies  to  Omar.) 

We  have  had  a  great  deal  of  rain  this  week 
—  for  which  the  farmers  are  duly  grateful. 
As  for  the  garden,  even  the  wonder-world 
of  my  recollections  never  seemed  fairer  to 
me  than  has  the  Miranda-governed  garden 
of  this  spring.  The  shrubs,  especially,  have 
outdone  themselves  —  the  thorns,  the  lilacs, 
the  azaleas,  and  now  the  rhododendrons  — 
while  the  borders  are  a  perfect  riot  of  German 
iris  and  columbines. 

This  morning,  after  breakfast,  I  went  into 
the  library  with  the  laudable  intention  of 
setting  it  in  order.  It  is  a  room  that  I  have 
entered  only  once  since  my  arrival.  There 
are  several  reasons  for  this  neglect.  In  the 
first  place,  it  is  a  great  bare  room  —  bare  of 
books  as  a  last  year's  walnut,  robbed  of 
its  kernel  by  some  maurauding  squirrel,  is 
of  meat.  The  polished  floor,  the  high  wains- 
coting (the  room  is  finished  in  age-darkened 
oak),  and  the  rows  of  empty  shelves  seemed 
reproachfully  to  remind  me  that  I  have  vowed 
to  be  done  with  books  —  the  making  of  them, 
at  least.  In  one  corner  of  the  library  —  and 
therein  was  my  second  reason  which  I  might 


46  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


call  a  certain  delicacy,  a  hesitation  at  in- 
truding too  suddenly  into  the  private  places 
of  a  woman's  soul  —  Miranda  had  kept  a 
portion  of  the  spirit  of  the  room  alive.  In  the 
bay  window  stood  a  low  worktable  with  a 
little  sewing-chair  beside  it;  an  old-fashioned 
desk,  over  which  a  brass  candlestick  and 
a  tiny  bust  of  Shelley  kept  guard,  flanked 
one  side,  while  a  generously-cushioned  arm 
chair  was  drawn  up  in  friendly  communion 
with  three  low  shelves  which  held  an  alluring 
collection  of  well-worn  books.  On  that  first 
day,  as  Miranda  stood  beside  me  in  the  center 
of  the  long,  dull  room,  this  little  nook,  aglow 
with  prismatic  flecks  of  dying  sunlight  and 
bathed  in  broad  shafts  of  mellow  amber, 
seemed  like  a  sanctuary.  It  was  with  some- 
thing of  an  effort  that  I  refrained  from  step- 
ping up  to  examine  the  contents  of  the  shelves 
— so  eager  was  I  to  know  Miranda  better. 
Yet  although  I  have  now  been  here  a  month 
and  more,  the  secret  of  her  library  is  still 
inviolate.  I  feel  that  I  can  trust  Miranda. 
To  know  the  books  a  woman  loves  is  to  know 
what  company  her  spirit  keeps,  and  to  know 
that  is  to  grasp  all  her  possibilities  both  for 
good  and  evil.  But  I  am  content  to  wait, 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


knowing  that  Miranda  cannot  disappoint 
me.  t 

Imagine,  therefore,  my  chagrin  as  I  stood 
in  the  doorway  and  realized  that  although  the 
few  pieces  of  furniture  were  undisturbed,  the 
books  and  feminine  belongings  had  vanished. 
Going  at  once  to  the  door  of  the  breakfast- 
room  I  called,  and  at  my  voice  Miranda  ap- 
peared from  the  kitchen.  Then  I  stepped 
back  across  the  hall,  Miranda  following  me, 
and  we  stood  together  in  the  doorway,  look- 
ing into  the  somber  room,  which  seemed 
with  its  rain-swept  outlook  more  dismal 
than  ever. 

"Miranda  —  how  could  you  ?"  I  reproached. 

She  held  up  a  protesting  hand. 

"Don't  — don't  scold." 

"I  must.  You  have  taken  away  your 
playthings." 

"  But  there  are  boxes  and  boxes  of  books  up- 
stairs to  be  unpacked,  and  every  inch  of  avail- 
able space  is  likely  to  be  taken  up  — " 

"  With  vulgar  trash !"  I  interrupted.  "  With 
Compendium*  and  Treasuries  of  Verse,  and 
ponderous  sets  of  World's  Best  Literature  and 
tiresome  old  duffers  whom  nobody  reads; 
while  yours  —  Miranda !  I  haven't  an  inkling 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


of  what  those  shelves  contained,  but  they 
looked  so  homey  and  friendly." 

"But  not  decorative.  Besides,  I  always 
understood  that  the  last  owner  of  the  Hall 
was  quite  a  literary  gentleman." 

I  made  a  wry  face.  Miranda  does  not 
suspect  that  I  write.  I  wonder  if  she  would 
call  me  a  literary  gentleman?  Bless  the 
child!  She  has  lived  in  this  enchanted  garden 
with  her  schoolbooks  and  her  classics  until 
she  does  not  know  that  such  a  thing  as  a 
"best  seller"  exists;  certainly  I'll  not  be  the 
one  to  tell  her. 

Nor  did  I  attempt  to  disturb  her  illusion 
about  the  late  owner  of  the  Hall.  It  is  true 
that  in  my  blackberrying  days  I  had  held 
him  in  great  awe,  but  remembering  some  of 
the  questions  he  had  asked  that  ignorant 
boy  and  the  advice  he  had  given  him,  I  have 
long  since  recognized  in  him  the  country 
Polonius  —  "a  tiresome  old  fool"  with  a 
medley  of  assorted  and  invariably  pilfered 
philosophies;  so  that  I  looked  forward  to 
acquaintance  with  his  library  with  but  scant 
enthusiasm. 

Before  long  the  room  was  filled  with  boxes, 
brought  in  under  the  careful  superintendence 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  4.9 


of  Mrs.  Rowen  and  opened  by  Jim,  while 
Miranda  and  I  hovered  anxiously  about, 
dipping  into  them  at  random. 

It  was  true  that  Miranda  urged  that  we  do 
the  work  systematically,  but  even  her  con- 
scientiousness was  not  proof  against  the  eager- 
ness which  every  true  book-lover  feels  at  sight 
of  a  box  crammed  with  unknown  possibili- 
ties. You  would  have  loved,  Mathilde,  to 
see  the  innate  reverence  with  which  she  lifted 
out  and  dusted  and  sorted  and  stacked  the 
books  into  little  piles  around  her  on  the  floor, 
or  to  hear  her  exclaim  pityingly  at  broken 
corners  or  a  mildewed  cover.  Meeting  my 
eyes,  however,  her  own  twinkled  merrily  as 
she  tapped  the  red  morocco  of  a  Boswell's 
Johnson,  and  declared  she  would  save  that 
for  after-dinner  reading  during  the  summer. 

I  was  helping  Jim  with  a  crate  of  encyclo- 
paedias of  a  forgotten  and  long  since  super- 
seded issue,  when  from  the  depths  of  a  new 
box  Miranda  quoted  gleefully : 

At  last,  because  the  time  was  ripe, 
I  chanced  upon  the  poets. 

And  with  a  little  satisfied  "Oh,  this  is  bet- 
ter!" sank  down  in  a  soft,  adoring,  childish 


jo  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


heap  on  the  floor  before  it,  pulling  out  first 
one  volume,  then  another,  opening  them  at 
random,  nibbling  here  and  there  like  a 
hungry  mouse.  Smiling  at  her  enjoyment  I 
left  her  with  her  find,  while  Mrs.  Rowen 
and  I  disposed  with  scant  ceremony  of  long 
rows  of  de  luxe  editions  whose  uncut  pages 
and  tarnished  gilt  told  a  pathetically  incon- 
gruous tale.  They  are  a  nightmare  —  albeit 
a  somewhat  grotesque  one,  and  a  trifle  less 
depressing  than  the  empty  shelves.  Per- 
haps, after  all,  I  shall  become  productive- 
ly industrious  again  and  devote  the  proceeds 
to  showing  Miranda  what  a  library  should  be 
like.  At  present,  my  trunkful  of  books  shall 
find  lodgment  in  the  cozy  little  upstairs  room 
I  have  set  apart  for  a  study. 

Mrs.  Rowen's  announcement  that  dinner 
was  ready  recalled  Miranda  to  the  actual 
world  of  dust  and  disorder.  She  looked  at  me 
reproachfully  as  she  rid  her  lap  of  the  Brown- 
ings and  Tennysons  and  dumped  the  whole 
Victorian  brotherhood — Pre-Raphaelites  and 
all  —  on  the  floor. 

"Why  did  you  let  me  waste  the  morning 
so?"  she  wailed.  "I  never  should  have  open- 
ed the  first  book.  Why  didn't  you  shake  me?" 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  57 


"I  envied  you  your  absorption.  I  was  only 
too  glad  that  you  had  found  something  worth 
while." 

"It  was  wonderful,",  admitted  Miranda 
thoughtfully.  "Things  I've  read  a  hundred 
times  before  seemed  newly  illumined  —  as 
though  someone  infinitely  wise  and  good  had 
me  by  the  hand." 

"That  can't  be  the  ghost  of  the  late  Major," 
I  said.  "At  least,  I  don't  recognize  him  by 
your  description." 

"See!"  said  Miranda,  putting  into  my  out- 
stretched hand  two  slender  volumes  bound 
in  gray.  They  were  proper,  precise,  essen- 
tially ladylike  volumes,  and  even  before  I 
had  verified  the  name  on  the  flyleaf  they  re- 
called the  forgotten  image  of  the  Major's 
sister.  You  would  have  liked  Miss  Cynthia, 
Mathilde.  Silver-haired,  placid,  exquisitely 
virginal,  she  had  yet  a  fiery  sparkle  in  her 
large  brown  eyes  that  made  it  easy  to  imagine 
her  surreptitiously  reading  —  the  latest 
Swinburne,  for  instance,  considered  then  a 
highly  immoral  poet  whom  none  but  the  most 
advanced  would  read.  She  had  not  been 
guilty  of  the  insolence  of  annotation,  but  the 
books  had  evidently  been  well  and  attentively 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


read,  for  they  were  sprinkled  with  little,  fine, 
wavering  lines  that  were  as  clear  and  sharp 
now  as  when  Miss  Cynthia's  gold  pencil  had 
made  them.  God  bless  her!  she  was  good 
to  me  and  to  my  mother. 

How  I  ramble  along  to  you,  Mathilde;  I 
who  abominate  letters  and  can  scarcely  bring 
myself  to  the  veriest  business  note.  It  is 
because,  dear  lady,  I  am  so  very  sure  of  being 
understood  that  I  bring  my  singing  heart  to 
you  to  be  rejoiced  over.  I  wait  longingly 
for  your  visit.  I  would  have  you  know 
Miranda.  How  I  wish  I  dared  have  written 
my  Miranda. 

Affectionately  your  friend, 

SAMUEL  WINTERS. 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  55 


fA  letter  from  Samuel  Garth  W inter s\ 
Lto    his   friend^   Mathilde   Burseyl 

June  nth,  19 — 

OH,  but  I  am  disappointed  —  more 
than  I  can  say.  Yet  of  course  I 
agree  with  you.  I  am  delighted  — 
for  the  children's  sake  —  that  you  have  the 
opportunity  for  this  Maine  summer,  and  since 
the  doctor  wishes  Eloise  to  go  at  once  there 
is  nothing  for  it  but  to  forego  your  visit  for 
the  present.  Shall  we  make  it  October?  It  is 
the  most  regal  month  of  all  the  year  —  up 
here  among  the  hills. 

You  dear  Woman-heart!  And  do  you 
really  think  that  I  could  know  a  Miranda 
without  telling  her  how  much  I  owe  a  Ma- 
thilde ?  I  think  she  is  even  more  disappointed 
than  I  am,  since  I  suspect  her  of  a  natural 
curiosity  to  see  what  sort  of  a  friend  such  an 
old  fogy  as  myself  would  have. 

I  am  glad  to  tell  you  that  after  two  days  of 
hard  work  we  have  finished  the  library.  It 
looks  just  as  I  remember  it,  with  all  the  old 
books  and  pictures  restored  to  their  places. 
Some  day  I  may  change  it  —  to  suit  a  wife, 
for  instance  —  but  at  present  I  like  to  see  it 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


as  it  used  to  look  when  I  waited  for  the 
Major's  orders  while  he  finished  his  game  of 
solitaire,  and  Miss  Cynthia  embroidered  in 
the  window.  Miranda  does  not  embroider,  a 
point  in  which  she  differs  from  Miss  Cynthia. 
Yes,  it  is  good  to  feel  that  this  great  house, 
which  seemed  so  colossal  and  magnificent 
to  my  boyish  eyes,  is  mine  at  last,  and  that 
I  need  no  longer  wander  clandestinely  through 
the  garden  to  shuffle  up  the  steps  of  th.e  kitchen 
porch,  but  may  boldly  enter  in  at  the  massive 
oaken  doors  that  guard  from  too  rude  awaken- 
ings the  sleepers  in  the  House  of  Dreams. 

I  shall  not  expect  a  letter  from  you  until 
you  are  settled.  I  know  how  disturbing  to 
your  dear  methodical  soul  such  a  migration 
must  be;  but  drop  me  a  postal  with  your 
address.  I  expect  the  book  in  from  the  pub- 
lishers within  a  day  or  two,  and  you  must  be 
the  first  to  have  a  copy. 

As  ever  your  friend, 

SAMUEL  WINTERS. 


PART  II 


THE  GARDEN  OF  DREAMS 


DOWN    DREAMLAND'S    LANE 

\A  letter  from  Miranda] 
LRozven  to  Dorothy  Roscome] 

June  1 7th,  19 — 
Dear  Dorothy: 

YOU  are  a  mischievous  little  tease, 
and  if  I  did  not  love  you  so  I  should 
be  really  provoked  with  you.  What 
nonsense,  Dorothy!  you  know  very  well  that 
that  is  not  the  reason  I  do  not  want  to  come 
to  Boston.  When  did  I  ever  visit  you,  you 
rogue,  in  June  ?  How  could  I  leave  the  garden 
in  the  loveliest,  busiest  month  of  all,  and  in  this 
most  probably  our  last  summer,  when  it's 
more  beautiful  than  it  ever  was  before  —  per- 
haps because  I  must  so  soon  lose  it.  Indeed, 
Dorothy,  I  think  it  will  be  much  more  likely 
that  I  will  defer  my  usual  August  visit,  since 
by  October  we  will  probably  have  said  good- 
bye to  the  Hall  forever.  That  is,  if  you'll 
have  me  then. 

Mother  and  I  are  planning  all  sorts  of  ven- 
tures, but  really  we  have  no  more  idea  what 

57 


$8  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


to  do  than  two  babes  in  the  wood.  I  suppose 
more  ambitious  people  would  have  foreseen 
and  provided  against  such  a  contingency  long 
ago.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  should  have  taken 
the  man's  part  when  my  dear,  tired  father 
laid  down  the  load  —  but  what?  Alas! 
Daddy's  ideas  of  education  were  beautifully 
broad  and  splendidly  impractical.  Now  if 
only  someone  wanted  a  girl  to  pass  an  exami- 
nation on  Spencer,  Darwin,  and  Huxley,  or 
Browning,  Stevenson,  and  Burroughs,  I  might 
stand  some  chance.  Then,  too,  how  could 
we  leave  this  place  —  so  loved  for  itself  and 
its  associations  with  my  father  —  as  long  as 
we  could  live  as  we  did?  Of  course,  now  it's 
different.  Mr.  Winters  is  simply  dear  —  so 
kind,  so  delicate,  so  diffident.  What  he  is 
really  trying  to  manage  for  us  is  to  persuade 
mother  to  stay  on  the  old  terms  for  doing 
practically  nothing.  He  has  provided  her 
with  a  helper  —  a  rather  inefficient  but  very 
willing  country  girl  —  and  he  has  insisted  on 
a  boy  for  the  garden.  More  hindrance  than 
help  he  is  at  present,  though  I  was  really  glad 
of  his  assistance  last  month;  I  was  late  get- 
ting out  the  perennials  this  year,  there  were 
so  many  things  to  be  attended  to  indoors. 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


But  you  should  see  the  garden  now.  The 
two  long  beds  that  border  the  walk  are  al- 
ready magnificent  with  larkspur,  foxglove, 
and  the  rich  crimson  of  the  peony,  with  Can- 
terbury bells  and  sweet  William  and  spicy 
pinks;  the  golden  glow  will  soon  make  the 
old  stone  wall  that  cuts  off  the  back  of  the 
garden  from  the  woods  a  riotous  bank  of 
color;  as  for  the  phloxes,  I  am  afraid  they  will 
dwarf  everything  else  in  sight.  I  divided  them 
last  fall,  and  had  no  idea  there  were  still  so 
many;  I  think  we  have  every  shade  in  which 
a  phlox  ever  dared  bloom.  We  will  have 
lots  of  poppies,  too  —  the  beauties!  two  long 
beds  of  them,  scarlet  and  pink  and  white,  to 
flirt  like  gossamer  coryphees  in  the  summer 
breeze,  and  furl  their  silken  sails  at  night 
to  guard  the  drowsy  sweets  within. 

Mr.  Winters  actually  does  not  suggest  a 
single  change.  He  is  restoring  all  the  old 
pictures  and  books  to  their  places,  and  seems 
to  remember  how  everything  in  the  lower 
rooms  used  to  look.  It  was  wonderful  —  the 
day  in  the  library;  he  arranged  one  shelf  from 
which  the  Major's  sister  had  allowed  him  to 
borrow  books  when  he  was  a  boy,  over  and 
over  again  until  he  got  each  volume  where  it 


60  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


used  to  stand;  and  he  was  quite  upset  because 
an  old  copy  of  Huckleberry  Finn  was  missing 
— said  out  loud  several  times,  as  though 
speaking  to  Miss  Cynthia:  "I'm  very  sure 
I  returned  it!  I  distinctly  remember  return- 
ing it!"  It  quite  made  me  love  him,  though 
it  did  not  surprise  me.  His  whole  attitude 
is  one  of  perfect  loyalty  to  his  beginnings; 
his  origin,  the  hard  life  of  his  parents,  his  own 
lack  of  opportunity,  his  poverty  and  early 
struggles,  he  never  mentions  except  with  a 
certain  gentle  deference,  as  though  he  gave 
them  the  credit  for  everything  since  accomp- 
lished. 

He  told  me  quite  a  great  deal  about  his 
youth  this  afternoon,  and  incidentally  I 
found  out  something  I  had  half  suspected. 
He  is  an  author!  He  had  not  intended  telling 
me.  How  foolish,  when  we  both  love  books 
so.  But  he  says  he  doesn't  write  books;  not 
real  books,  but  just  stories  that  are  called 
"best  sellers,"  and  asked  me  how  I  had  come 
to  suspect  him.  I  told  him  that  it  was  rather 
hard  to  unravel  the  exact  train  of  thought 
that  had  resulted  in  his  conviction,  but  that 
perhaps  the  most  tangible  clue  had  been  a 
number  of  short  stories  I  had  read  while  in 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  61 


Boston  on  a  visit,  some  years  ago.  You  must 
have  seen  them  — •  Moonstone  and  Amber. 
I  remembered  that  they  had  been  by  a  Mr. 
Winters  whose  initials  I  had  promptly  for- 
gotten, but  whose  literary  ego  lingered.  Per- 
haps that  was  why  from  the  first  moment 
Mr.  Winters  seemed  like  an  old  acquaintance. 
I  used  to  wonder  why,  until  suddenly  one 
day,  behind  the  hazy  veil  of  some  treasured 
impression,  Mr.  Winters,  the  author,  peered 
over  the  shoulder  of  the  new  owner  of  the 
Hall  and  admitted  mischievously:  "Why,  cer- 
tainly! I'm  Mr.  Winters,  the  Mr.  Winters! 
Don't  you  know  me  ?"  and  I  had  much  ado 
to  keep  from  falling  on  his  neck  and  greeting 
him  as  a  long  lost  friend  —  but  I  did  not 
tell  him  that. 

He  seemed  well  pleased  that  I  liked  the 
stories  —  surely  you  recall  them?  tender, 
idyllic,  springlike  fancies,  full  of  haunting, 
whimsical  suggestions.  He  said  that  they 
had  been  written  a  good  many  years  ago  and 
republished  from  various  magazines,  but  that 
they  had  failed  to  attract  much  attention.  I 
asked  him  to  let  me  read  them  again  and  he 
willingly  agreed,  but  seemed  very  shy  over 
the  novels. 


62  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


You  should  see  the  roads  about  here  now. 
The  meadows  swim  in  a  hazy,  twinkling  sea 
of  blue  above  the  long  spears  of  grass,  and  the 
brook  is  fairly  hemmed  in  on  each  side  by 
masses  of  blue  flag.  Daddy  used  to  say  that 
blue  flowers  always  love  the  water. 

Dear  Daddy!  I  never  miss  him  so  much 
as  in  the  spring.  I  have  thought  of  him 
almost  constantly  today.  In  fact, —  I  dare 
admit  it  to  you,  Dorothy,  because,  with 
all  your  teasing,  you  are  such  an  under- 
standing sort  of  a  girl, —  there  are  times 
when  I  see  him.  More  frequently  than  ever 
before  I  look  up  from  some  task  of  transplant- 
ing or  weeding  to  find  him  standing  over  me, 
his  dear  gray  eyes,  so  short-sighted  for  human 
failings  or  peculiarities,  fixed  upon  me  in 
kindly  benison.  And  then  the  haze  of  sudden 
tears  blinds  me  for  a  moment,  and  when  I 
can  see  again  it  is  only  Mr.  Winters,  pausing 
in  his  round  of  the  garden  to  note  the  progress 
of  the  rosebuds.  I  think  that  is  why  I  feel 
so  much  at  home  with  him.  I  never  thought 
to  meet  a  man  so  like  my  father. 

But  enough  of  all  this,  Dorothy  dear.  So 
you  really  think  you'll  go  back  to  Castine  this 
summer?  I  wish  I  could  visit  you  in  August 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  63 


as  I  did  last  year.  Perhaps  things  will  ar- 
range themselves  so  that  I  can.  Until  then 
we  must  be  content-  with  letters.  What 
volumes  I  write  to  you  always. 

Your 

MIRANDA. 

•   *    * 

fA  letter  from  Miranda"} 
LRowen  to  her  dead  father J 
My  own  dear  Daddy: 

SUCH  a  beautiful  June  night!  Just 
such  a  night  as  used  to  find  you 
wandering  bareheaded  and  coatless 
beneath  the  stars.  Do  you  remember  the 
evening  you  strayed  down  Dreamland's  Lane 
and  wandered  off  into  the  meadow,  and 
when  we  heard  your  call  and  went  out  to 
your  rescue  we  found  you  —  very  bewildered 
and  very  wet  —  in  the  middle  of  the  cow- 
pond,  rooted  among  the  reeds  and  lilies?  I 
have  wanted  you  so  much  all  day,  dear; 
and  I  turn  to  you  as  naturally  in  writing 
as  I  used  to  do  in  my  school-girl  days, 
when  I  eased  my  exile  by  nightly  recitals  of 
my  daily  exploits,  for  you  to  puzzle  over. 
Besides,  I  must  write  tonight,  or  go  quite 
mad  with  the  loveliness  of  it  all.  I  have  just 


64  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


written  a  long,  long  letter  to  Dorothy.  If  you 
were  here  you  would  furrow  up  your  beauti- 
ful forehead  till  your  eyebrows  fairly  bristled 
in  your  effort  to  remember,  and  say  —  "Dor- 
othy! Dorothy!  Let  me  see.  She's  the  com- 
fortable little  body  with  the  curls,  isn't  she?" 
And  I  would  pretend  to  scold  you  for  your 
uncertainty,  and  at  last  admit  that  she  was. 
Only,  that  she  doesn't  wear  curls  now,  and 
is  getting  so  roly-poly  that  I'm  afraid  it 
isn't  comfortable  at  all.  But  she's  just  the 
same  dear,  fussy,  good-humored  little  sym- 
pathizer, and  you'd  love  her  if  —  if 

Oh  Daddy!  Daddy!  Why  did  you  have  to  go 
away? 

But  I  musn't  think  of  that  unless  I  want  to 
find  myself  at  one  end  of  the  long,  long 
problem  for  which  there  never  seems  to  be 
any  solution.  Some  day,  I  tell  myself,  I  will 
sit  down  and  think  it  all  out  conscientiously 
—  as  you  would  have  me  do  —  the  "why" 
of  life  —  as  far  as  I  can  see  it.  But  not  yet! 

I  had  such  a  beautiful  walk  with  Mr.  Win- 
ters this  afternoon.  I  really  felt  very  much 
gratified  at  being  wanted,  for  I  think  the 
ramble  was  intended  to  pick  up  his  boyhood 
days  where  he  had  dropped  them. 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


We  followed  the  brook,  Daddy,  as  you  and 
I  used  to  do,  by  crossing  over  from  side  to 
side  whenever  the  bank  ended  in  a  tangle  of 
flag  or  bolted  down  into  a  jungle  of  pickerel- 
weed.  At  last  we  left  the  sunny  fields  and 
meadows  and  dipped  down  between  the  hills. 
Mr.  Winters  asked  if  they  still  called  it  Para- 
dise Falley.  I  told  him  yes,  but  that  for  me 
I  should  sooner  think  of  the  hills  as  Paradise. 
He  smiled  thoughtfully. 

"How  white  a  soul  yours  must  be,  Mi- 
randa. There  are  times  when  even  the  view 
from  Mont  Salvat  (so  he  calls  the  Hall)  will 
make  me  long  to  find  some  hidden  nook  in 
this  little  ravine  where  so  poor  a  thing  as  I 
may  take  refuge." 

I  really  didn't  know  how  to  explain;  I 
can't  talk  well  on  personal  matters,  but  I 
think  it  is  because  I  have  not  lived  much  that 
I  am  unafraid  of  what  the  hills  reveal.  Per- 
haps I,  too,  shall  love  the  valley  best  when  I 
grow  old.  But  goodness!  Mr.  Winters  is 
not  really  old,  and  the  quick,  boyish  smile 
that  plays  so  radiantly  about  his  mouth  when 
your  fancy  chimes  in  well  with  his  is  more 
than  compensation  for  his  fast  graying  hair  — 
which  is  probably  responsible  for  the  feeling 


66  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


that  he's  rather  old  —  which  he  really  isn't. 
Dear  Daddy!  how  you  would  have  shud- 
dered at  such  English. 

But  we  did  not  see  the  hills  to-day.  In- 
stead we  kept  to  the  shaded  lanes  until  we 
reached  the  wood.  He  wanted  to  show  me 
the  Indian  Cave  where  he  played  as  a  boy  — 
as  though  I  did  not  know  it  well.  But  when 
we  came  here  I  was  almost  too  old  to  play 
at  Indians.  I  would  slip  in  among  the  under- 
brush, and  loosening  my  short  skirt  pin  it 
up  tunic-fashion  over  one  arm,  and  forthwith 
emerge  a  timid  Imogen  or  jaunty  Rosalind 
as  the  mood  directed.  How  often,  leaning 
on  the  alpenstock  you  cut  me  for  climbing, 
I  have  stood  between  the  beeches,  and  soften- 
ing and  deepening  my  girlish  treble  to  the 
orotund  I  thought  Shakespeare  required, 
sighed  to  an  imagined  Touchstone: 

Well,  this  is  the  Forest  of  Arden ! 
or  brandishing  a  make-believe  sword  at  the 
ridiculously  tiny  opening  of  the  cave,  flut- 
tered out  a  timid : 

Ho!  who's  here? 

If  anything  that's  civil,  speak:  if  savage, 
Take  or  lend.  Ho! — No  answer?  Then  I'll  enter. 
Best  draw  my  sword;  and  if  mine  enemy 
But  fear  the  sword  like  me,  he'll  scarcely  look  on't. 
Such  a  foe,  good  heavens ! 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  67 


Oh,  those  happy  days !  Quite  as  radiantly, 
blissfully  happy  was  I,  with  my  make-believe, 
as  the  boy  with  his  bit  of  a  candle  and  his 
wicked  looking  cutlass  (a  rusty  broken  sickle 
rescued  from  the  blacksmith's  scrap-heap). 
I  did  not  know  that  you  could  enter  the  cave, 
but  he  says  that  he  remembers  that  when  he 
crawled  flat  upon  his  stomach  the  length  of 
his  body  (he  was  then  a  boy  of  ten),  the  tunnel 
widened  and  deepened  until  there  was  space 
large  enough  to  turn  around  and  sit  quite 
comfortably  facing  the  opening,  with  knees 
drawn  up,  hands  clasping  them,  and  eyes 
staring  out  into  the  circle  of  green  beyond. 
It  must  have  been  a  thrilling  sensation  — 
when  you  were  an  escaped  convict  with  a 
price  on  your  head,  or  the  slaughterer  of  an 
entire  tribe  of  Indians  doomed  to  fearful  tor- 
ture should  you  be  captured. 

We  came  home  by  Somer's  place  and  down 
through  Dreamland's  Lane.  Before  I  thought 
I  had  called  it  by  that  old  name  of  my  own 
christening,  and  of  course  he  wanted  to  know 
why.  Do  you  remember  the  day  you  left  me 
sitting  by  the  roadside  while  you  went  over 
to  Somer's —  that  time  he  hurt  his  arm?  It 
was  very  warm  and  I  was  tired,  and  when 


68  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


you  got  back  you  found  me  asleep  and  evi- 
dently in  the  throes  of  a  most  distressing 
dream. 

You  may  guess  how  embarrassed  I  was  when 
Mr.  Winters  asked  me  if  I  would  tell  him  the 
dream.  I  hardly  knew  what  to  say.  I  had 
never  even  told  you,  yet  I  hated  to  make  a 
mystery  of  nothing,  especially  after  men- 
tioning the  matter  of  my  own  accord,  so  I 
made  light  of  it,  begging  him  to  remember 
that  I  was  not  then  out  of  my  teens,  was  very 
romantic,  and  inclined  to  be  religious,  and 
that  I  had  been  reading  poetry  till  my  brain 
was  addled.  I  will  tell  it  to  you,  now,  as  I 
told  it  to  him. 

It  seemed  —  in  my  dream  —  that  I  was 
going  hither  and  thither  over  the  face  of  the 
earth  seeking  someone.  At  first,  as  I  looked 
for  him  in  the  cities  and  by  the  sea,  I  did  not 
know  just  who  it  was  that  I  sought;  but 
gradually  it  came  to  me —  although  I  still 
could  not  see  his  features  —  that  it  was  my 
mate.  And  everywhere  I  went  was  the  same 
answer  made  to  my  questions:  "He  is  not 
here!" 

Finally  I  came  to  the  edge  of  the  world, 
against  whose  purple  shore  a  white-winged 


The  Garden  of  Drec.ms  dp 


boat  stood  ready;  but  ere  I  entered  it  I  looked 
reluctantly  back,  not  satisfied  to  go  until 
I  heard  a  voice  that  said:  "He  whom  you 
seek  is  not  on  earth!" 

In  the  boat  I  sailed  to  Heaven — and  the 
interval  of  sailing  was  as  a  flash  of  lightning. 
And  there  again  began  my  search,  and  some- 
one halted  me  and  said:  "What  is  he  like  — 
this  man  you  seek?" 

And  I  answered:  "I  do  not  know;  but 
when  I  see  him  I  shall  know." 

And  after  I  had  sought  through  Heaven  in 
vain  I  went  to  Hell;  and  there  it  was  I  cried 
bitter  tears  of  fear  and  dread.  But  he  was 
not  there,  and  even  as  my  father  woke  me  a 
voice  cried  out:  "  The  man  you  seek  is  not  yet 
born!" 

Was  it  not  a  strange,  uncanny  dream? 
When  I  had  told  it  to  Mr.  Winters  the  silence 
that  followed  seemed  very  long.  Then  he 
said  gently: 

"Are  you  superstitious,  Miranda?" 

"I  think  not.    Why?" 

"Do  you  believe  that  dream?" 

"Oh  no;  though  I've  sometimes  thought 
that  —  well,  of  course,  it  might  prove  true." 

I  could  have  bitten  out  my  tongue  that  had 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


led  me  into  so  morbidly  personal  a  conversa- 
tion when  he  said : 

"Don't  believe  it,  Miranda.  You  must 
not  believe  it;  it  would  be  too  sad  for  you  — 
and  me." 

I  don't  know  what  I  answered.  I  know 
that  after  a  frightened  silence  I  caught  up 
my  courage  and  my  wits  in  both  hands  and 
gave  the  conversation  a  mighty  wrench,  and 
set  it  spinning  safely  and  tamely  again  on 
barnyard  subjects;  but  oh,  how  my  heart 
did  beat! 

It  was  all  my  fault,  of  course;  mine  —  and 
that  silly  dream's  But  how  I  should  hate 
it  if  Mr.  Winters,  whom  I  really  like  and 
admire  very  much,  should  think  the  occasion 
demanded  flattery  and  pretty  speeches; 
should  leave  his  attitude  of  sensitive,  friendly 
scholarliness  for  that  of  the  middle-aged 
gallant.  Oh  dear!  It  must  never  happen 
again.  I  must  keep  my  dreams  under  lock 
and  key  hereafter.  Or  better  still,  tell  them 
only  to  you.  Dear  Daddy,  if  only  I  knew 
how  it  is  with  you  to-night.  It  is  always  at 
night  that  I  want  you  most.  Sometime  I 
know  that  I  shall  go  out  into  the  garden,  down 
between  the  lilacs  you  loved  so  much,  to  meet 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


you  as  I  used  to  do.  If  only  I  could  know 
that  you  would  not  fail  me  then.  It  is  al- 
most midnight,  and  there  is  no  other  light  in 
the  house.  Even  the  lamp  in  Mr.  Winters' 
study  went  out  some  time  ago.  As  for  mother, 
she  has  been  asleep  for  hours  —  little  dream- 
ing what  foolish  fancies  possess  me.  Such  a 
blessed  darkness  broods  about  the  house. 
How  can  people  in  the  cities  bear  the  imperti- 
nent intrusion  of  electric  lights  and  gas 
lamps  into  the  sacred  privacy  of  the  night? 
Presently  I  shall  blow  out  my  lamp  and  dark- 
ness will  fall  upon  me  like  a  benison. 

Good-night,  Father,  Good-night.    God  love 
and  bless  you,  dear,  in  that  mysterious  beyond. 


PART  III 


THE  GARDEN  OF  DREAMS 


THE     DESERTED     ORCHARD 

[A  letter  from  Samuel  Garth  Winters'} 
to    his   friend,    Mathilde    Burseyl 

August  loth,  19. — 
Dear  Mathilde: 

A  last  your  welcome  letter!  Oh,  I 
know  I've  been  remiss  and  deserved 
no  better  at  your  hands,  but  Mathilde, 
you  were  never  one  for  treating  "every  man 
according  to  his  deserts,"  so  that  I  really  felt 
quite  alarmed  at  your  long  silence.  Fancy 
then  how  delighted  we  were  when  we  heard 
of  you  indirectly  through  Miranda's  friend, 
Miss  Dorothy  Roscome.  Such  a  glowing 
account  of  your  trip  together  up  Casco  Bay, 
and  the  sweet  hospitality  of  the  little  bunga- 
low among  the  hackmatacks!  She  is  really 
a  most  appreciative  little  person  —  is  Miss 
Dorothy.  She  writes  of  you  —  "  Such  a  won- 
derful grandmother  —  with  such  a  young 
face  and  figure,  and  such  beautiful  white  hair, 
such  merry  eyes  and  humorous  chin,  such 
firm  white  hands  —  so  large  and  capable, 

75 


76  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


so  warm  and  vital."    I  shall  certainly  have 
to  know  Miss  Dorothy. 

And  then  on  top  of  her  letter  came  yours  — 
and  evidently  the  good  impression  was  mu- 
tual. But  you  must  not  form  any  impres- 
sion of  Miranda  from  her  chum.  We  have 
many  pictures  of  Miss  Dorothy,  and  nothing 
further  from  Miranda  could  be  imagined  than 
that  roly-poly  little  person.  You  say  that 
she  sings  Miranda's  loveliness  in  every  key 
imaginable.  Now  listen  while  I  join  in  the 
chorus.  I  have  never  tried  to  describe  her, 
because  while  with  her  I  have  always  found 
myself  seeing  the  soul  —  the  lovely  per- 
sonality of  her  —  rather  than  the  body,  and 
afterwards  catch  myself  wondering  just  what 
color  her  eyes  are  anyway.  Such  a  confes- 
sion from  a  lover!  but  Miranda  would  under- 
stand it.  Because  her  eyes  are  gray  —  deep 
gray,  shadowy,  velvety  in  certain  lights,  the 
eyes  of  the  dreamer,  the  mystic,  the  scholar, 
and  yet  saved  from  impracticability  by  the 
alertness  of  the  brows.  Indeed  Miranda's 
eyes  are  deceiving.  I  have  discovered  that 
there  is  no  little  living  thing  along  the  road 
that  ever  escapes  her,  though  I  may  feel  quite 
easy  with  a  faded  necktie  or  an  unshaved 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  77 


chin.  A  comfortable  sort  of  a  girl  you  will 
admit,  Mathilde,  to  live  with. 

She  is  like  a  fawn  —  so  slender,  so  supple, 
so  graceful.  Her  hair  shines  like  a  fresh  horse- 
chestnut  in  a  pool  of  sunlight.  I  need  not 
tell  you  that  she  neither  crimps  nor  waves 
it,  nor  otherwise  tortures  it  into  standing 
on  end,  but  wears  it  softly  framing  her  face  — 
as  God  meant  women's  hair  to  grow.  Her 
skin  —  why  I  believe  she's  golden  clear 
through!  So  tenderly  have  the  elements 
dealt  with  her  that  you  would  not  guess  she 
was  tanned  unless  you  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  white  flesh  beneath  the  golden  throat. 
For  the  rest,  she  is  perhaps  five  feet  four  — 
an  adorable  height  in  a  woman,  that  allows 
you  to  think  of  them  as  short  or  tall,  as  the 
occasion  —  or  your  mood  —  demands. 

Do  you  wonder  at  the  audacity  that  would 
dare  offer  in  exchange  for  this  dryad's  heart 
the  middle-aged  tenderness  of  a  romantic 
bachelor?  Sometimes  I  grow  afraid  and  want 
to  run  away  and  leave  her  to  the  virginal 
calm  in  which  I  found  her.  At  other  times 
I  am  bold,  daring  to  believe  that  no  one  could 
understand  Miranda  so  well  as  I  do.  She, 
dear  child,  looks  at  me  from  such  frank,  un- 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


troubled  eyes  that  I  am  often  tortured  with 
doubts.  I  can  imagine  that  just  so  may  she 
have  looked  at  her  father.  On  such  occasions 
she  does  not  seem  her  age  —  she  will  be 
twenty-four  next  week  —  and  I  think  wild 
schemes  for  suggesting  to  Mrs.  Rowen  that 
I  adopt  her.  At  other  moments,  when  the 
sweet  laughter  ripples  from  her  round  throat 
at  some  idiocy  of  mine,  I  throw  my  forty 
years  to  the  winds  and  vow  that  if  only  Mi- 
randa will  love  me  I  will  be  a  boy  again. 

I  note  all  that  you  say  of  The  Afterglow. 
I  am  glad  indeed  that  you  like  it,  for  in  spite 
of  all  that  you  can  urge,  I  feel  that  it  is  the 
last  I  shall  write  —  the  last  novel,  I  mean. 
Oh,  I  do  not  promise  to  abstain  entirely.  I 
am  too  wedded  to  the  pen,  and  besides,  the 
habit  of  self-expression  is  a  persistent  one 
that  may  not  always  be  indulged  at  the  ex- 
pense of  one's  friends. 

Good-bye,  Mathilde;  my  love  to  all  your 
dear  ones.  I  suppose  the  wonder-boy  is  more 
cherubic  than  ever.  Tell  Eloise  that  I  shall 
expect  her  to  bring  him  for  a  long  visit  some 
time  soon.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned  she 
need  not  wait  till  he  has  passed  what  she  is 
pleased  to  call  the  caveman  stage.  I  like 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


cavemen  when  they  wear  golden  curls  and 
blue-checked  rompers. 

I  am,  as  ever,  dear  Mathilde, 

Yours  most  devotedly, 
SAMUEL  GARTH  WINTERS. 


tA  letter  from  Samuel  Garth  Winters'] 
to    his    friend,    Mathilde    Burseyl 

September  9th,  19 — 

Dear  Mathilde: 

A  OTHER  love  of  a  gray  morning.  It 
must  have  rained  during  the  night,  or 
else  the  dew  is  unsually  heavy  —  for 
everything  is  jeweled.  A  cobweb  that  hangs 
from  the  eaves  aslant  across  my  window  has 
dipped  with  the  weight  of  dewdrops  till  it 
forms  a  fairy  hammock.  Anything  quite 
so  perfect  I  never  saw;  diamonds  caught 
upon  an  invisible  thread,  with  here  and  there 
a  moonstone,  perhaps.  What  a  hair-net  for 
Titania!  The  nasturtiums  in  the  great  stone 
basin  beneath  my  window  hold  such  a  display 
upon  their  silvered  leaves  as  would  turn  a 
lapidary  green  with  envy.  I  can  imagine 
the  jewel-weeds  along  the  brook;  it  is  on 


8o  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


such  a  morning  as  this  that  they  justify  their 
name. 

Just  now  I  spied  Miranda  —  rubber-booted, 
rubber-coated,  an  old  sou'wester  on  her 
chestnut  locks  —  sallying  forth  through  the 
drizzle,  a  little  basket  on  her  arm.  I  know 
well  what  that  means  —  Mushrooms!  Broiled 
mushrooms  garnishing  a  Spanish  omelette, 
or  mushrooms  drunk  with  cream  —  in  which 
to  smother  the  fried  chicken.  Ah!  do  I 
make  you  hungry?  Wretch!  I  would  fain 
make  you  hungry;  we  live  here!  Our  vege- 
tables, our  fruits  come  to  us  rich  in  the  earth 
salts;  you  cannot  say  as  much  for  your 
Broadway  cafe. 

I  would  dearly  love  to  join  Miranda  in  her 
hunt  for  the  toothsome  agarics,  but  that  I 
know  the  dear  women  are  planning  to  sur- 
prise me.  Miranda  thinks  me  snug  abed,  and 
so  I  would  have  been  but  for  the  witchery  of 
the  morning. 

What  nonsense  you  talk,  Mathilde.  Don't, 
I  pray  you,  do  Miranda  such  a  wrong.  She  is 
as  eager  to  hear  of  you  as  I  am  to  talk.  Why, 
when  Miss  Roscome's  letter  came  she  fairly 
danced  into  the  library.  "What  do  you 
think?"  she  cried.  "You  never  would  guess 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  8l 


in  a  hundred  years.  My  Dorothy  and  your 
Mathilde  have  met.  It  must  be  the  same. 
See,  she  says  —  'A  Mrs.  Bursey  who  is  here 
with  her  son  and  married  daughter.'  Oh,  I 
am  so  pleased.  Having  Dorothy  meet  her 
is  the  next  best  thing  to  meeting  her  myself. 
Here!  Of  course  you  will  want  to  read  the 
letter;  it's  almost  all  about  your  friend." 
Then  suddenly  she  flushed,  and  added,  in 
confusion —  "Or,  perhaps  I'd  better  read  it 
to  you." 

I  notice  that  she  omitted  the  last  page.  I 
wonder  what  girlish  secret  was  hidden  on  that 
page?  I  am  growing  older  and  sillier  each 
day;  I  swear  I  fancy  that  I  saw  my  name. 

Here  comes  Miranda  back  again.  She  has 
robbed  the  peach  orchard  and  investigated 
the  edges  of  the  cornfield.  Is  there  any 
music  to  compare  with  the  silken  rustle  of  the 
wind  through  a  cornfield  on  a  September 
day?  Also  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  had 
paid  her  respects  to  the  fairy-ring,  where 
little  fawn-colored  god-children  of  the  same 
name  cluster  thickly  on  a  rainy  morning. 

Since  Jim  leaves  immediately  after  break- 
fast with  the  mail  I  will  cut  short  my  mean- 
derings.  When  do  you  get  back  to  New 


82  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


York?    Next   week,    I   suppose  —  at   latest. 
Surely  then  we  may  hope  to  see  you. 
As  ever,  affectionately  yours, 

SAMUEL  WINTERS. 


[A  letter  from  Samuel  Garth  Winters'] 
to   his    friend,     Mathilde    Bursey] 

September  28th,  19 — 
Dear  Mathilde: 

A  MOST  as  much,  indeed,  as  you  do, 
I  find  myself  wondering  if  this  mood  of 
rustic  contentment  will  prove  transi- 
tory, and  —  even  as  all  other  fulfilled  desires 
—  breed  its  own  reaction.  Shall  I  presently, 
when  winter  winds,  sweeping  down  from 
the  four  corners  of  the  heavens  upon  my  bit 
of  mountain,  pile  snowdrifts  waist  deep  around 
my  door,  find  myself  longing  for  my  bache- 
lor quarters  in  town,  the  street-car  banging 
along  around  the  corner,  the  dust  and  noise, 
and  the  busy  traffic  that  make  up  the  life  of 
the  city  square?  I  hardly  think  so  —  but 
we  shall  see.  Certain  it  is  that  the  long  sum- 
mer days  have  flown  by  upon  golden  wings. 
Several  times  Miranda  thought  to  chide  me, 
to  spur  me  on  to  great  endeavor,  but  although 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  83 


we  have  talked  over  life  and  its  purposes 
(she,  shyly  at  first,  but  with  ever  broadening 
frankness  and  fearlessness,  as  she  comes  to 
know  me  better),  it  has  not  blinded  her  to  the 
corollary  that  I  would  rather  talk  than  work. 

In  the  meantime  I  have  been  "learning" 
Miranda  —  "studying"  would  express  a  de- 
gree of  intention  that  has  never  existed  in  my 
thoughts  thus  far.  I  have  merely  chosen  to 
keep  my  soul  receptive  and  my  mind  empty 
(in  the  last  I  have  succeeded  admirably),  that 
Miranda,  when  she  chose,  might  fill  me  with 
herself;  and  at  the  present  writing,  though  I  be 
accused  of  levity,  I  should  say  that  so  gener- 
ously overflowing  with  Miranda  am  I  that 
were  she  to  withdraw  herself  I  should  be  a 
wilderness,  more  than  ever  like  the  deserted 
orchard  we  visited  this  afternoon. 

It  came  about  in  this  fashion:  The  old 
owner  of  the  Hall  had  also  quite  a  bit  of  land 
twelve  miles  back  in  the  mountains.  Being 
so  far  distant  from  a  railroad  —  and  indeed 
from  habitation  of  any  eort  —  he  allowed  it 
to  be  farmed  after  a  fashion  by  some  very 
poor  backwoodsmen,  exacting  in  place  of  rent 
toll  on  the  orchard  products,  which  were  very 
fine.  Years  ago,  before  even  my  recollection, 


84  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


the  farmhouse  burned  down  one  cold  winter's 
night.  It  must  have  been  a  terrible  exper- 
ience for  those  poor  people,  helpless  before 
the  element  they  had  no  means  to  fight.  I 
never  heard  just  what  became  of  them,  but 
the  place  was  not  rebuilt.  It  was  too  in- 
accessible, absolutely  cut  off  from  all  com- 
munication during  the  long  snowy  season. 

When  I  purchased  the  Hall  I  was  strongly 
urged  to  take  also  this  fifty  acres  at,  it  is  true, 
a  ridiculously  small  sum  for  so  much  of  God's 
good  earth.  I  allowed  myself  to  be  per- 
suaded, the  agent  representing  that  it  was  an 
excellent  site  for  a  hunting  and  fishing  club, 
and  that  he  had  already  been  approached  by 
several  would-be  purchasers  who  would  gladly 
consider  it  if  it  could  be  acquired  apart  from 
the  Hall.  I  commissioned  him  to  find  a  buyer 
at  anything  like  a  reasonable  figure,  but  I 
notice  that  his  enthusiasm  has  strangely 
abated  now  that  the  long  unsold  estate  is  at 
last  off  his  hands. 

Remembering  the  fame  of  the  orchard  and 
acting  upon  Jim's  assurance  that  the  apple 
crop  would  be  a  very  fine  one  this  year,  I 
decided  to  take  Miranda  with  me  and  esti- 
mate the  prospects  and  the  advisability  of 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  85 


sending  a  team  after  *ny  apples,  which,  from 
a  partiality  to  the  fruit  of  my  boyhood,  I 
hated  to  think  of  as  rotting  on  the  ground. 
The  weather  being  hot  we  put  off  the  expedi- 
tion from  day  to  day,  but  at  last  came  the 
first  tang  of  autumn,  tripping  in  its  impatience 
upon  the  skirts  of  summer,  and  having  dis- 
posed of  a  hasty  luncheon,  Miranda  and  I 
started  for  —  well,  strangely  enough,  the  old 
place  has  absolutely  no  name,  being  ap- 
parently unknown  to  the  younger  generation, 
and  still  designated  by  those  of  the  older  yet 
alive  as  "back  to  Beeman's"  —  Beeman  being 
the  name  of  the  family  who  lived  in  it,  more 
than  thirty  years  ago. 

So  back  we  went;  back  indeed!  If  I  wanted 
to  I  might  easily  write  a  paragraph  full  to 
overflowing  of  symbolic  touches;  but  that, 
alas !  I  am  no  Maeterlinck. 

Enough  if  I  say  that  after  the  first  six  miles 
we  turned  off  the  turnpike  road  and  bumped 
and  rattled  along  the  lumber  trail  that  runs 
straight  —  or  rather  crookedly  —  back  into 
the  heart  of  the  forest.  And  such  a  road! 
For  the  greater  part  of  it  so  narrow  that  we 
touched  the  trees  on  either  side  —  though  here 
and  there  wide  enough  for  two  teams  to  pass; 


86  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


always  either  up  hill  or  down  —  and  for  the 
most  part  up,  with  deep  ruts  that  clutched 
the  wheels  and  refused  to  let  them  go. 

As  for  Joan,  she  went  picking  her  way  among 
the  rough,  loose  stones,  very  careful  of  her 
feet  (poor  dear!)  and  utterly  regardless  of  the 
boulders  over  which  she  precariously  tilted 
our  buggy  wheels.  Indeed  she  looked  back 
at  us  now  and  then  —  when  of  her  own 
accord  she  paused  for  breath,  or  pretended 
with  much  equine  histrionicism  that  she  could 
not  possibly  take  another  hill  —  with  a  mild 
reproof  in  her  big  soft  eyes,  as  though  to  say: 
"Where  on  earth  are  you  two  imbeciles  going? 
Is  this  a  decent  road  for  a  poor  horse  to 
travel?" 

Once  we  startled  a  copper  head,  coiled 
asleep  in  a  nice,  round  mat  alongside  the  road. 
I  can't  think  where  Joan's  instincts  were  — 
perhaps  she  was  too  intent  on  the  long,  hard 
stretch  ahead  of  her.  We  would  not  have 
seen  it  had  it  not  raised  a  sudden  inquisitive 
head,  and  then,  with  almost  leisurely  uncon- 
cern, undulated  its  way  through  the  bushes 
abreast  of  us.  Miranda  in  all  her  tramps  had 
never  encountered  one  before,  and  even  when 
I  was  a  boy  copperheads  were  nearly  extinct 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  87 


in  the  country  round,  although  occasionally 
a  few  were  brought  in  by  the  lumbermen 
who  sold  their  dried  skins  to  summer  visitors. 
Ugh !  I'm  glad  Miranda  has  no  such  unpleas- 
ant fancies.  I  may  be  foolish,  but  I  can  not 
imagine  living  comfortably  with  a  woman 
who  wore  a  dead  snake  around  her  waist; 
though,  inconsistently  enough,  I  have  no 
such  objection  to  a  bit  of  seal  or  alligator. 

Once  we  passed  a  lumber  wagon  drawn  up 
close  to  the  side  of  the  road,  its  patient  mules 
eyeing  us  —  or  so  we  fancied  —  with  a  faint 
surprise  and  interest;  and  we  heard  in  the 
distance  the  rhythmic  sound  of  axes.  We 
counted  on  that  hillside  seven  marked  trees, 
chalked  with  an  ugly  cross,  and  Miranda 
prayed  that  it  might  rain  that  night  and  oblit- 
erate the  mark  on  one  splendid  hickory,  at 
least.  But  for  the  last  five  miles  we  came 
across  no  sign  of  human  habitation,  and  then 
the  woods  began  to  grow  thinner  and  we 
dipped  down  into  a  little  hollow  —  the  road 
suddenly  meandered  into  an  ancient  meadow 
and  lost  itself  in  a  vague  indication  of  what 
had  once  been  a  grassy  lane.  Here  we 
tethered  Joan,  and  together  crossed  the 
meadow  to  the  decrepit  stone  wall  that 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


marked  its  furthermost  boundary.  If  there 
is  anything  more  suggestive  of  the  disinte- 
grating effects  of  age  than  an  old  stone  wall 
fallen  together  into  a  shapeless  mass  of  nig- 
gerheads  —  I  do  not  know  it.  Beyond  the 
wall  was  a  half-acre  of  ground  overgrown  with 
weeds,  the  site  of  what  had  once  been  the 
homestead.  Of  the  barns  and  outbuildings 
there  was  of  course  no  trace,  but  the  founda- 
tions of  the  farmhouse  were  still  standing  — 
the  stones  fire-blackened  and  weather-worn. 
Beyond  was  a  wilderness  where  at  one  time 
had  flourished  a  vegetable  garden,  and  cross- 
ing this  we  found  ourselves  on  the  gentle 
southern  slope  which  had  once  borne  the  fa- 
mous orchard.  I  think  I  mentioned  that  the 
afternoon  had  been  full  of  symbolism:  that 
deserted  orchard  was  a  sermon!  The  trees 
were  there  to  be  sure,  but  of  all  those  splendid 
apples  that  had  once  been  noted  for  their 
size  and  flavor  there  was  no  suggestion.  The 
fruit  had  retrograded  till  the  knotty,  worm- 
eaten,  tough  and  tasteless  things  were  scarcely 
fit  for  pigs.  It  was,  of  course,  too  soon  to 
judge  severely  of  the  winter  apples,  but  among 
the  early  varieties  we  found  only  one  tree 
that  did  not  disgrace  its  name.  There  had 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  89 


been  no  careful  gardener  there  to  graft  or 
prune,  and  although  Miranda,  eagerly  examin- 
ing the  bark,  began  talking  scientifically  of 
some  parasitic  scale,  I  knew  better. 

"Don't,  Miranda!"  I  pleaded,  taking  her 
hand  away  from  the  branch  she  was  already 
examining  with  all  the  professional  interest 
of  the  trained  horticulturist.  "Don't  make 
it  any  worse;  it's  moral  is  sufficiently  terrible 
— without  the  San  Jose  scale." 

"Why  —  what  is  it?"  asked  Miranda,  in- 
stantly transferring  her  sympathy  from  the 
trees  to  me.  "  Do  you  feel  so  sorry  for  them  ?" 

"It  is  my  heart,  Miranda.  My  own  heart 
is  like  this  orchard;  for  it  has  no  gardener 
either— to  tend  the  trees,  to  prune,  to  nourish, 
or  to  gather  in  the  fruit." 

"Oh,  see  there!"  she  cried.  "Did  you  see 
them?  Bluebirds  at  this  time  of  year  —  and 
I  never  saw  so  many  together  before.  Oh, 
isn't  it  wonderful?" 

And  it  did  indeed  seem  wonderful.  For 
with  us,  bluebirds  rarely  linger  more  than 
a  few  days  in  passing.  Occasionally  a  pair 
will  nest  near  us,  and  the  orchard  will  be  made 
glad  with  their  tender,  elusive  song  and  waver- 
ing flights;  but  like  Miranda,  I'm  sure  I  had 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


never  seen  half  a  dozen  of  them  together  be- 
fore. These  were  down  at  the  foot  of  the 
orchard  among  some  plum  trees,  and  the  silent 
flash  of  their  blue  wings  —  that  wonderful 
blue  which  is  like  nothing  else  that  I  can  think 
of  —  kept  us  entranced,  until  a  sound  borne 
on  the  still  mountain  air  made  us  look  at  each 
other  with  amazement.  Finally  Miranda 
laughed. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "Pm  no  logician,  but  a 
cow-bell  usually  means  a  cow;  and  a  cow 
would  mean  that  we  are  not  so  far  from  a 
house  as  I  had  imagined." 

I  helped  Miranda  over  the  wall  and  we  ran 
down  the  hill  to  where  a  little  ravine  sheltered 
the  tiny  brook  —  which  we  crossed,  and  up 
the  other  sloping  side,  and  so  came  out  upon 
a  straggly  road.  Down  it,  driving  two  cows 
before  him,  came  a  freckle-faced,  bare-legged 
boy  who  might  have  been  the  ghost  of  myself 
—  till  he  opened  his  mouth.  He  told  us 
rather  sullenly  —  as  though  he  resented 
questioning — that  he  lived  "  a  half-mile  over." 
He  had  been  pasturing  his  cows  on  my  land, 
but  much  I  cared;  and  when  I  told  him  to 
tell  his  father  that  he  would  do  me  a  favor  if 
he  would  send  over  and  gather  as  many  of  the 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  pi 


apples  as  were  fit  to  use,  he  thanked  me  rather 
sheepishly,  so  that  I  imagine  they  had  never 
before  felt  the  need  of  getting  permission. 

"Fancy — "  said  Miranda,  as  more  soberly 
we  made  our  way  back  to  the  now  thoroughly 
disgusted  Joan —  "what  it  would  mean  to 
live  in  a  little  four-room  bit  of  a  house  —  with 
perhaps  five  or  six  children  —  in  an  out  of  the 
way  corner  of  the  world  like  this.  Fd  rather 
have  the  Hall  —  wouldn't  you  ?" 

"Would  you,  Miranda?"  I  'cried  eagerly. 
"I'd  like  to  give  you  the  Hall  —  and  the  gar- 
den —  and  the  fern-nest  —  and  the  woods  — 
and  the  old  cow-pond  you're  so  anxious  to 
make  a  water-garden  of,  and  the  books,  and 
of  course  you  —  you  wouldn't  mind  if  I  threw 
myself  in  for  good  measure?" 

Miranda  looked  at  me  with  as  much  dis- 
pleasure as  I  had  ever  seen  on  her  sweet, 
grave  face. 

"Don't  jest!"  she  said.  Then  rapping  the 
reins  over  Joan's  indignant  back,  she  added 
crisply:  "Come  Joan,  old  girl,  you  must 
hurry  up." 

"But  I'm  not  jesting!"  I  protested.  "And 
don't  hurry  Joan;  I  shouldn't  care  if  we 
never  got  home." 


92  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


I  hoped  Miranda  would  look  at  me  again, 
but  she  didn't.  Instead  she  made  a  very 
palpable  attempt  at  changing  the  conversa- 
tion by  addressing  sundry  sympathetic  re- 
marks to  Joan. 

"But—  "  said  I  — "it  will  do  her  good.  She 
ought  to  be  brought  up  here  every  day  for  ex- 
ercise; she's  growing  too  fat  and  lazy  entirely." 

That  won  me  what  I  sought  —  a  second 
quick  glance  from  Miranda. 

"Of  course,  you  know,"  I  said,  "Joan  goes 
in  with  the  rest  of  the  live-stock;  so  I'd  like 
her  to  be  in  good  condition." 

"0A/"  cried  Miranda,  her  cheeks  burning. 
"That  is  unbearable;  it's  not  like  you.  How 
can  you  make  a  jest  of  such  things?" 

"Sweetheart!  Sweetheart!"  I  cried.  "What 
else  dare  a  man  do  but  jest  when  he's  fairly 
crazed  with  fear?" 

"Fear?"  said  Miranda,  "of  what?" 

"Of  you!"  I  whispered,  so  low  that  she 
looked  at  me  quickly  to  make  sure  she  had 
heard  aright. 

"Why  —  "  she  faltered  —  "why  should  you 
fear  me  ?" 

"Tell  me  how  else  a  man  should  feel  when 
he  sees  before  him  the  culmination  of  all  his 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  pj 


hopes  and  ambitions,  the  desire  of  his  life,  the 
realization  of  his  dreams  —  and  knows  he  is 
not  worthy  to  attain  them  ?" 

"Why  are  you  not  worthy?" 

"Were  any  man?" 

"That  is  temporizing  —  " 

"You  are  so  young." 

A  faint  smile  flickered  momentarily  over 
Miranda's  face. 

"In  the  language  of  someone  whose  name 
I  have  forgotten  —  *That  is  a  defect  that  time 
will  remedy.' ' 

"And  you  are  so  rare  a  being,  Miranda." 

"Are  you  exalting  me  to  depreciate  your- 
self by  implication  ?" 

"Partly  —  perhaps;  how  else  should  we 
select  the  baser  metals  than  by  comparison 
with  gold?" 

For  a  long  time  Miranda  did  not  answer. 
When  she  spoke  it  was  as  though  she  thought 
aloud. 

"I  do  not  know  how  love  would  make  a 
man  feel;  I  should  imagine  it  would  make  a 
woman  very  proud.  Why  should  it  not? 
After  all,  it  is  the  chrism  —  life's  consecrated 
oil  —  that  sets  her  apart  —  " 

"Would  it  be  such  to  you,  Miranda?" 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


She  sent  me  a  quick,  beseeching  glance; 
then  rallied  bravely. 

"Joan  is  taking  advantage  of  us;  if  we  per- 
sist in  so  serious  a  topic  she  will  never  get 
home." 

"Bother  Joan!"  said  I. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  we  drove  into  the 
barn  and  turned  the  tired  Joan  over  to  Jim. 
We  knew  Miranda's  mother  would  have 
supper  ready  for  us,  yet  we  lingered  a  moment, 
as  by  mutual  consent,  at  the  side  of  the  house 
where  the  rose  mallows,  pink  and  white,  are 
banked  and  the  asters  edge  the  walk. 

"I  am  thinking,"  I  said  softly,  "of  that 
poor  deserted  orchard.  No,  of  my  heart, 
I  mean.  All  the  big  brave  hopes,  the  high 
ideals,  the  generous  instincts,  the  honest 
ambitions,  retrograding  and  degenerating  into 
mean  little  snarly  actualities  —  because  there 
is  no  careful  gardener  to  prune  and  nourish, 
to  watch  the  ripening  fruits  and  gather  them. 
Won't  you  be  the  gardener,  Miranda  ?" 

Miranda's  answer  was  inarticulate,  but  she 
left  off  caressing  the  sleepy  asters  and  found 
her  way,  somehow,  into  my  arms.  Presently 
she  whispered,  with  her  head  upon  my  heart: 
"Poor  old  orchard!"  and  then,  triumphantly, 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  95 


raising  eyes  that  matched  the  stars:  "But  it 
wasn't  deserted!  You've  forgotten  the  blue- 
birds." 

Ah,  Mathilde!  I  am  too  happy  to  write 
more!  Miranda  has  promised  to  marry  me! 
Not  a  thousand  years  from  now  —  but  soon, 
very  soon.  Her  face  was  divinely  tender 
as  she  said:  "After  all,  why  should  I  make 
you  wait?  What  have  I  to  get  ready?  All 
my  life  has  been  but  a  getting-ready  for  you; 
and  you,  you  have  waited  so  long  for  your 
life's  fulfillment." 

Ah,  Mathilde!    Not  even  to  you  can  I  tell 
what  I   answered.     Bless  us,   Mathilde,  for 
without  your  benediction  even  this  one  bliss- 
ful moment  would  be  incomplete. 
Affectionately  yours, 

SAMUEL  WINTERS. 


PART  IV 


THE  GARDEN  OF  DREAMS 


THE     NIGHT     GARDEN 

TA    letter   from    Miranda"] 
LRowen  to  Dorothy  Roscomfl 

October  ist,  19 — 
Dearest  Dorothy: 

I  HAVE  lived  in  such  a  dream  these  last 
three  days  that  I  hardly  know  how  to 
marshal  anything  so  matter-of-fact  as 
words  into  order  sufficiently  intelligible  to 
carry  my  news  to  you.  Dear  girl,  it  must  all 
sound  so  very  abrupt,  I  fear,  and  yet — What 
is  the  use  ?  You've  guessed  it  already,  haven't 
you?  And  you  won't  suggest  that  Pm  "too 
rash,  too  sudden,  too  ill-advised"  when  I  tell 
you  that  we  are  to  be  married  very  soon  — 
the  end  of  this  month  in  fact. 

It  is  just  five  months  to-day  since  I  met  Mr. 
Winters,  and  yet  —  let  me  whisper  it  to  you, 
Dorothy:  Five  months  is  quite  a  while  to  get 
used  to  an  idea,  especially  if  every  hour  of  the 
day  the  thought,  tenderly  persuasive  and 
omnipresent,  laps  you  around  with  its  unob- 
trusive suggestion.  I  admit  to  myself  now 
oo  


loo  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


that  at  the  very  moment  when  I  stepped  be- 
fore the  great  dogwoods  that  spread  pink  and 
white  snowstorms  on  the  grass  beneath  them, 
and  found  a  stranger  down  on  his  knees  among 
the  violets,  I  knew  that  he  had  come  into  my 
life  to  stay  —  that  he  cupped  my  soul  in  the 
hollow  of  his  hand  as  surely  as  he  held  the 
solitary  flower  he  had  plucked,  and  I'm  very 
certain  my  face  must  have  gone  as  white 
as  the  violets;  so  frightened  and  so  awed 
was  I. 

So,  after  all,  it  is  not  sudden.  On  the  con- 
trary, Mr.  Winters  says  that  it  has  taken  me 
an  unpardonably  long  time  to  grow  used  to 
the  idea  —  and  wonders  slyly  if  it  will  take  me 
as  long  to  learn  to  drop  the  formal  "Mr. 
Winters."  I  shall  write  you  at  greater  length 
in  a  day  or  two  —  this  is  only  to  say  that  we 
want  you.  Mr.  Winters  is  writing  to  ask 
Mrs.  Bursey,  for  we  have  decided  that  of  all 
the  world  we  each  need  to  complete  our  happi- 
ness but  one  friend.  You  will  come,  won't 
you?  We  haven't  fixed  the  date,  but  it  will 
be  the  last  week  in  October  —  the  thirtieth, 
most  likely. 

Congratulate  me,  dear;  I  am  so  very  happy. 
And  yet  so  quiet  with  it  all,  so  much  at  peace 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  101 


that  I  sometimes  wonder  if  I  am  really  quite 
awake.  Mother  is  very  glad  for  me,  very 
confident  of  my  future,  but  I  think  she  mourns 
the  lack  of  ante-nuptial  excitement.  She 
would  like  to  see  me  —  just  for  once  —  exer- 
cised over  my  clothes,  forgetting  that  I  can 
hardly  care  greatly  for  such  matters,  being  her 
child  as  well  as  father's.  Dear  Mother! 
Ever  since  I  can  remember  I  have  simply  had 
to  force  her  to  get  herself  the  necessities  of 
life,  yet  I  think  it  would  give  her  a  real  thrill 
of  delight  if  I  would  go  out  sometime  and 
buy  myself  half  a  dozen  pairs  of  silk  stock- 
ings —  or  something  equally  frivolous.  Per- 
haps I  shall,  just  to  please  her,  some 
day;  but  at  present  I'm  too  deeply  joyous 
to  care  very  much  whether  I'm  married 
in  cheese  cloth  or  peau  de  soie  —  so  long 
as  I'm  not  called  upon  to  sew  the  tedious 
thing  myself. 

I  shall  feel  a  certain  trepidation  till  I  get 
your  letter.  If  you  were  not  such  a  dear  I 
should  expect  from  you  a  dubious  lecture  for 
my  empressement,  and,  dear  that  you  are,  you 
can  scarcely  be  expected  to  realize  —  never 
having  seen  the  gentleman  —  that  Mr.  Win- 
ters is  a  person  I  have  known  for  centuries. 


IO2  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


But  you,  too,  will  understand  some  day,  so 
be  merciful. 

Lovingly, 

MIRANDA  . 

*    *    * 

VA  letter  from  Samuel  Garth"} 
L  Winters  to  Miranda  Rowen\ 

Thursday  Night. 
Dear  Love: 

I  AM  catching  the  early  morning  train  to 
New  York,  so  will  be  slipping  out  of  the 
house  before  you  are  well  awake.  I  have 
only  just  made  up  my  mind  to  go,  and  the 
decision  having  been  reached  I  must  act  upon 
it  at  once  or  I  will  weaken.  For  it  is  not  easy 
to  leave  you,  Miranda,  even  for  a  few  brief 
days.  Brief  did  I  say?  when  each  hour  that 
I  am  away  my  soul  clamors  for  you  with  an 
intensity  that  strangles  all  else,  with  a  love 
that  is  savage  at  the  edges  —  but  that  within 
holds  ever  a  core  of  perfect  peace,  secure  con- 
tent, and  deep,  still  joy.  Ah,  Miranda!  I 
shall  never  write  you  a  love  letter.  I  shall 
spend  my  life  too  closely  at  your  feet. 

Your  light  has  been  out  hours  ago.     Dear 
child!     I  wonder  if  you  are  sleeping.     Some- 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


how,  I  fancy  not.  Dear  little  girl  —  wide- 
eyed  in  the  dark  —  I  read  the  trouble  in  your 
voice,  the  doubt  in  your  sweet  eyes.  You 
may  sleep,  my  darling.  Your  problem  will 
have  solved  itself  long  ere  I  return.  At  least, 
so  prays  your  lover. 

S.  G.  W. 

*   *   * 

VA  letter  from  Miranda"] 
LRowen  to  her  dead  father! 

Sunday  Night. 

SOMEHOW  I  have  always  felt  that  if 
I  needed  you  very  much,  dear  father, 
you  would  come  to  me,  you  would  give 
me  a  sign  —  if  only  in  my  dreams.  You  used 
to  say  that  writing  a  thing  all  out  —  even  if 
it  was  very  much  involved  in  one's  mind  — 
would  clear  up  the  puzzling  places  much  more 
satisfactorily  than  aeons  of  purposeless  and 
profitless  rumination.  Darling,  I  know  why 
Garth  went  away.  I  feel  that  I  can  guess  why 
he's  staying  away.  He  sent  me  a  line  yester- 
day saying  he  was  detained  and  mentioning  his 
address.  Mother  expected  him  this  after- 
noon and  was  quite  vexed  with  me  for  being 


104 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


so  phlegmatic,  but  although  my  heart  beat 
suffocatingly  as  it  neared  train  time,  I  felt 
that  intuition  —  having  served  him  in  his 
going  —  would  not  fail  him  in  his  return. 
For  dear,  dear  father,  I  know  that  Garth  read 
my  anxious  questionings  aright.  A  word, 
a  look,  a  touch,  a  kiss  from  him  that  somehow 
were  different,  and  I  —  who  love  him  so  well 
— drew  back  aghast  at  the  sea  of  passion  I  had 
not  suspected.  I  have  loved  him  so  quietly, 
so  —  so  tamely,  it  seems  now,  and  perhaps  it 
is  not  a  quiet  love  like  mine  that  he  needs. 
We  have  taken  each  other  so  much  for  granted 
that  for  the  first  time  —  to-night!  —  I  have 
asked  myself  if,  after  all,  I  really  know  what 
I  am  doing.  Always  he  has  been  so  calm, 
so  tender,  so  self-restrained,  that  I  did  not 
know  him  in  a  new  guise,  and  I  have  an  un- 
comfortable suspicion  that  he  let  me  get  this 
glimpse  of  Garth,  the  lover,  not  because  —  as 
he  repentingly  pretended  —  he  was  carried  out 
of  himself,  but  to  wake  me  to  the  fact  that  with 
just  such  a  Garth  I  should  have  to  live.  There 
was  something  splendid  —  primitive  —  savage 
even  (it  is  his  own  word)  about  it,  and  oh,  the 
bitterness  of  the  thought!  I  was  not  at  all 
attuned  to  such  a  mood  —  was  not  prepared, 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  705 


did  not  respond,  was  plainly  frightened  even. 
And  so  poor  Garth  has  gone  off  by  himself, 
doubting  if  I  really  love  him,  wondering  if 
perhaps  I  have  not  mistaken  my  own  heart, 
and  waiting  patiently  for  me  to  find  myself 
out.  By  the  acuteness  of  my  own  distress  I 
gauge  his  misery.  At  the  same  time,  way 
down  in  a  little  corner  of  my  extremely  non- 
sensical soul,  I  feel  quite  sure  that  we  are 
both  suffering  needlessly;  since  no  matter 
how  we  differed,  no  matter  what  ages  and 
weary  voids  separated  us  each  from  the  other, 
I  should  have  to  come  to  him  in  the  end.  Ah, 
but  I  had  dreamt  of  a  flawless  oneness  in 
which  there  would  be  no  need  of  concessions 
and  compromises  —  hateful  words,  for  all 
their  tactfulness,  that  yet  hide  ugly  skeletons 
of  discord  beneath  their  graceful  diplomacy. 

I  suppose  that  mother  would  say  all  that 
ails  me  is  the  weather.  Mother  is  a  great 
believer  in  the  moral  effects  of  atmospheric 
conditions,  you  know,  and  certainly  this  is 
odd  weather  for  October.  The  day  began 
with  a  cold,  gray  dawn,  a  driving  rain  storm, 
high  winds  that  sent  "the  flying  gold  of  the 
maples"  broadcast.  Then  the  sun  came  out 
and  beamed  moistly  on  a  steaming  earth; 


io6 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


and  now  the  night  puts  a  whimsical  end  to  the 
unrestful  day. 

It  is  a  night  full  of  mystery;  there  is  portent 
in  the  wind  tossing  the  tree-tops,  in  the  moon 
—  not  yet  full  grown  —  riding  breezily  among 
the  scurrying  clouds,  in  the  unquiet  air,  so 
warm,  so  moist,  so  full  of  electricity. 
The  lightning  is  everywhere  at  once,  not  in 
flashes,  nor  yet  in  sheets;  the  whole  atmos- 
phere palpitates  for  a  moment  like  a  luminous 
fog  between  you  and  the  objects  that  stand 
out  clearly  enough  under  the  light  sky,  then 
quivers  an  instant  and  is  gone.  It  is  weird, 
uncanny,  and  fills  one  with  a  creeping  sense 
of  dread  which  the  warm  breeze  fans  to 
terror;  altogether  a  most  unpromising  night 
in  spite  of  its  beauty.  I  do  not  think  that  I 
harbor  many  fears;  the  woods,  these  moun- 
tain roads,  are  my  friends  in  any  guise  of 
storm  or  sunshine,  yet  to  say  that  there  is 
nothing  in  natural  phenomena  to  terrify  seems 
very  absurd  to  me.  All  nature  is  too  near 
akin  to  the  Great  Mystery,  too  much  a  part 
of  the  infinite  raison  d'etre  to  be  ever  consid- 
ered commonplace.  It  would  be  like  boasting 
that  one  was  unafraid  of  God!  Yet  the  fear 
is  not  unwholesome.  It  sets  one  searching — 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  107 


searching  out  the  weak  places,  the  shams, 
the  trivialities. 

So  perhaps  it  is  to  the  magical  night  of  un- 
rest, of  little  panting  portents,  that  I  am  to 
attribute  the  strangely  insistent  feeling  that 
somewhere  down  there  in  the  garden  you  are 
waiting  for  me,  dear.  I  have  never  before 
felt  it  so  strongly  —  never  at  all,  in  fact, 
except  in  June  —  your  month.  Are  you  there, 
dear?  pacing  the  lilac  walk  or  hovering  un- 
certainly among  the  dogwoods?  I  have  al- 
ways felt  sure  that  if  you  did  come  to  me,  it 
would  be  when  the  flowering  dogwoods  spread 
their  snowy  panoplies  above  the  early  violets; 
but  now  their  leaves  are  scarlet  and  gold,  with 
vivid  red  berries  borne  proudly  aloft  —  till 
the  first  deep  snow  shall  drive  the  hungry 
birds  to  bolt  the  hostile  fare.  Ever  and  again 
from  among  the  rugged,  jutting  clouds  sails 
out  the  moon  triumphantly.  Every  shrub 
throws  its  shadow  across  the  path.  Strange! 
I  could  swear  that  there  was  something  mov- 
ing down  there  —  something  that 

All  the  house  is  dark;  even  mother,  who 
keeps  late  hours  these  nights,  has  long  since 
ceased  fretting  as  to  whether  a  tucked  chemi- 
sette or  a  shirred  one  would  be  most  becom- 


lo8  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


ing.  My  light  is  out,  too,  for  I  love  to  write  in 
the  semi-darkness.  It's  so  irrevocable  —  the 
words  slip  from  my  pencil  into  long  lines  of 
thought  that  I  cannot  read.  So  I  feel  almost 
as  though  they  had  gone  to  you,  as  though 
your  spirit  leaning  over  me  could  read  what  I 

cannot  see,  and  Daddy! I  must  go! 

I  must  know  what  is  waiting  for  me  down  there 
near  the  gate.  Be  with  me!  Give  me  a  sign 
that  all  is  well;  that  you  approve  —  that  you 
are  satisfied  with  me. 

Dear  darling,  it  is  quite  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  I  have  just  satisfied  myself  of  that 
by  the  little  silver  watch  you  gave  me  on 
my  tenth  birthday.  And  this  that  I  write 
you  is  in  the  nature  of  a  thank-offering  —  and 
because  I  must  write,  must  tell  myself  again 
it  all  is  true,  before  I  sleep.  Dear,  I  went  to 
the  tryst  —  but  you  were  not  there.  In- 
stead—  oh  dear,  dead  father,  I  was  wrong. 
I  believe  that  you  were  with  me  all  the  time, 
urging  me  to  be  brave,  to  dare  to  see  for  my- 
self, to  be  unafraid  of  aught  that  God  might 
reveal.  I  slipped  out  of  the  old  house  as 
lightly  as  a  ghost.  The  wind  caught  the 
dead  leaves  and  sent  them  swirling  with  little 
sighs  and  moans  around  my  feet.  The  late 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  109 


asters  and  chrysanthemums  rubbed  their 
sleepy  heads  together  with  little  ghostly 
murmurs,  the  wind  seemed  to  redouble  its 
moist  fury  —  and  the  moon  went  out  as  com- 
pletely as  though  she  had  been  blown  out  for 
good.  But  although  the  individual  shrubs 
and  trees  retreated  into  a  serried  mass  at 
once,  there  was  still  light  enough  to  find  one's 
way  about  the  garden  —  even  if  the  frequent 
lightning  had  not  flooded  every  corner  of  it. 
I  had  gotten  down  almost  to  the  gate  when  in 
a  sheet  of  light  I  made  out  the  dogwoods  and 
someone,  I  was  positive,  walking  among 
them.  Tall,  broad  shouldered,  yet  a  trifle 
stooped,  the  figure  seemed.  I  do  not  know 
what  I  expected;  I  know  that  I  turned  and 
ran  across  the  strip  of  lawn;  that  in  the  shadow 
of  the  shrubbery  I  felt  my  way  between  the 
trees  and  bushes;  that  panting,  sobbing,  mur- 
muring things  only  half-articulate,  I  ran 
directly  into  the  arms  of  Garth  —  Garth  who 
had  turned  sharply  towards  me  as  he  heard 
my  voice.  < 

Oh,  how  close  he  held  me !  How  warm  and 
real  his  arms  were!  I  did  not  know  that  I 
was  crying  till  I  felt  his  kisses  mingling  with 
the  tears. 


no  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


"Miranda!  Dear,  dear  child!  how  did  you 
come  here?"  And  then,  as  I  could  not  answer, 
he  continued  remorsefully:  "I  should  not 
have  lingered  outside;  I  never  dreamt  that 
I  might  be  seen.  Were  you  frightened  ?" 

«No_ "  I  shook  my  head—    "exalted!" 

I  felt  his  arms  about  me  tighten,  knew  him 
studying  my  answer.  Then,  very  softly: 
"You  did  not  know  I  was  here?" 

"No  —  I  don't  understand  now  how  you 
came  here." 

"Missed  connections  at  the  junction — 
came  on  by  the  10:30,  which  was  late,  of 
course.  They  accommodated  me  by  stop- 
ping. I've  been  here  since  midnight  watching 
the  storm  gather.  Besides,  I  had  your 
window  to  guard,  and  you  to  think  of.  But 
you?" 

I  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  I  knew  then, 
dear  darling,  that  I  was  glad  you  had  not 
returned  to  me  as  I  had  wished.  I  could 
not  have  borne  it;  to  believe  you  —  in  the 
dear  form  of  old,  hovering  ever  just  beyond 
the  veil  of  human  sight  would,  I  think,  have 
broken  something  within  me.  How  good  it  is 
that  God  does  not  always  answer  our  prayers. 
Garth  waited  till  I  could  speak  connectedly, 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  in 


soothing  me  with  tenderness.  After  I  had 
told  him  all,  I  felt  his  hand  in  mine  tremble 
a  little. 

"  Dear,  brave,  lonely,  little  child  —  "  he 
whispered,  "I  wish  I  could  think  that  your 
loneliness  was  over." 

"Think  it  then  —  "I  answered.  And  when 
he  hesitated,  continued  earnestly:  "It  is  over, 
Garth.  How  could  I  ever  be  lonely  again, 
when  I  have  you  ?" 

I  felt  him  smile. 

"Then  your  doubts?"  ' 

"I  have  no  doubts." 

"Yet  a  few  moments  ago  when  you  prayed 
your  father  for  a  sign?" 

It  dawned  on  me  with  a  great  gladness  then 
that  I  had  received  the  sign.  I  had  sought 
my  father  —  I  had  found  my  lover!  I  think 
I  had  found  something  else  —  the  woman  I 
was  to  be !  but  I  could  not  tell  him  that. 

"Dear  heart,"  he  whispered,  "pacing  here 
so  close  to  you  —  yet  so  far  that  I  could 
easily  imagine  what  it  might  be  to  lose  you  — 
I  had  made  up  my  mind  never  to  frighten 
you  again." 

"You  never  can  again,"  I  said;  "so  your 
heroism  is  quite  superfluous." 


I 12  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


"Not  even  if  Pm  savage?  It's  only  the 
edges  —  "he  entreated. 

"Not  even  if  you're  savage,"  I  assured 
him  bravely.  "Would  you  know  why?" 

He  nodded. 

"Then,  dear  sir,"  I  said,  "in  that  first 
moment  in  your  arms  I  awoke  to  a  new  cer- 
tainty. It  is  this:  While  my  love  is  very 
quiet  —  at  the  edges,  a  sort  of  dreamy,  poppy- 
eyed  content,  there  is  something  savage  for 
you  at  the  core.  It's  just  a  new-born  savage 

—  I  caught  only  a  breathless  peep  at  him 
myself,  but  he's  very  lusty  for  an  infant,  and 

—  and    I    shouldn't   wonder  —  if   he   would 
grow."    And  with  that  I  kissed  him  straight 
upon  the  lips  and  fled. 

Oh,  but  he  caught  up  with  me  by  the  moon- 
dial,  and  though  we  had  no  need  for  explana- 
tions they  were  very  sweet  to  hear. 

The  storm  has  blown  off  to  the  south  after 
all,  and  the  moon-lit  garden  is  quieter  now. 
From  the  friendly  porch,  as  we  said  our  late 
good-nights,  it  seemed  anything  but  the  weird 
and  ghostly  place  it  had  been  an  hour  earlier; 
for  with  Garth's  arm  around  me,  I  had  no 
longer  any  doubt  that  I  was  home. 


PART  V 


THE  GARDEN  OF  DREAMS 


THE      HEARTH 

[A  letter  from  Mrs.  Samuel  G.  Winters'] 
to    her    friend,      Mathilde     Burseyl 

November  5th,  19 — 
Dear  Mathilde: 

A  PER  all,  I  am  glad  you  gave  me  per- 
mission to  call  you  so.  I  may  have 
stammered  rather  ungracefully  that 
first  night,  but  believe  me,  my  heart  has  al- 
ways called  you  by  that  dear  name.  For 
weren't  you  Garth's  "Mathilde"?  I  only 
wish  that  my  French  wasn't  so  rusty  that  I 
might  correspond  with  you  in  that  beloved 
tongue.  Then  indeed,  you  might  be  chere 
Mathilde,  and  there  is  something  about  c here 
Mathilde  that  just  suits  you,  even  as  the 
frame  suits  the  lovely  minature  you  gave 
Garth.  By  the  way,  isn't  it  a  funny  thing 
about  names?  Did  Garth  ever  tell  you  how 
he  hit  upon  mine  without  really  knowing  it? 
Now  "Samuel"  doesn't  seem  to  suit  him  at 
all.  He  teases  me  dreadfully  about  it,  but 
he  has  never  yet  heard  me  call  him  by  his 

"5 


Il6  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


first  name  —  though,  in  confidence,  Mathilde, 
I  may  tell  you  that  I  sometimes  practice 
it  softly  in  the  dark.  When  I  first  met  him 
I  used  to  wonder  if  ever  I  would  know  him  well 
enough  to  call  him  Samuel  (Sam  seemed  quite 
too  dreadful),  and  you  can't  imagine  how  re- 
lieved I  was  when  I  found  out  that  all  the 
country  people  about  here  who  remembered 
him  as  a  boy  called  him  Garth.  It  was  his 
mother's  maiden  name  you  know,  and  the 
Garths  were  among  the  first  settlers  of  the 
county;  so  that  when  he  was  a  tiny  freckle- 
faced  boy  —  the  image  of  his  mother's  people 
—  the  old  folks  always  referred  to  him  as 
"one  of  the  Garths,  her's  as  married  that 
young  Winters,  y*  know."  So  Garth  he  will 
remain  for  me  —  even  though  you  shamed  me 
by  your  gracious,  sweet- voiced  "Samuel." 

How  good  you  were  to  us !  Mother  is  quite 
as  bad  as  we  are  —  you  have  become  the  sub- 
ject of  a  three-cornered  eulogy.  Mother, 
you  know,  in  spite  of  having  lived  thirty  years 
with  the  most  unconventional  of  men,  re- 
tains a  certain  love  for  things  seemly  —  and 
usual.  So  our  short  engagement  and  our  de- 
termination to  be  married  quietly  and  with- 
out any  fuss  seemed  —  how  shall  I  say? — 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


sort  of  unfestive  and  not  sufficiently  era- 
marking.  She  would  willingly  have  slaved 
for  weeks  ahead  of  time  to  make  the  occasion 
a  noteworthy  one  for  Garth's  friends.  But 
after  you  came  she  grew  quite  suddenly  satis- 
fied, admitting  confidently  to  me  that  you 
were  a  host  in  yourself.  As  for  me,  with  you 
and  Dorothy  there,  I  felt  that  the  rest  of  the 
world  was  well  forgot. 

We  are  settling  into  the  winter  season  early. 
I  am  not  sorry.  There  is  something  gloomy 
about  that  interval  between  the  last  leaf's 
fall  and  the  first  snowflake.  All  day  the  wind, 
tossing  dead  leaves  about  the  denuded  garden, 
has  made  me  think  of  the  ocean.  Occasion- 
ally, it  happens  so;  the  air  blows  straight  across 
the  mountains  and  valleys  from  the  north- 
east and  brings  to  us,  all  these  many  miles 
away,  a  breath  of  the  sea.  With  it  comes  a 
strange  restlessness  born  of  breaking  waves 
and  well-remembered  stretches  of  white  sand. 
Then  —  for  several  hours,  perhaps,  or  a  day 
or  two  at  most  —  I  am  absent  in  spirit  from 
this  dear  spot  where  I  have  been  so  happy; 
happier,  since  I  have  come  to  know  it  as 
Garth's  home  —  and  mine  —  than  I  had  ever 
thought  it  possible  to  be. 


n8 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


Don't  you  love  a  log  fire?  Of  course  you 
do,  or  you  would  not  be  "Mathilde."  On 
great  occasions  —  as  a  sort  of  a  sacrament  — 
we  burn  birch  in  our  fire-place;  and  really  of 
late  I  fear  the  occasions  are  growing  too  fre- 
quent for  our  supply.  We  have  lots  of  gray 
birch  on  the  hillside,  but  the  white  is  scarce, 
and  both  are  so  beautifully  decorative  we 
cannot  bear  to  make  of  them  a  sacrificial 
offering  —  even  to  our  hearth.  Most  of  our 
fire-wood  comes  from  a  strip  of  woodland 
back  in  the  mountains  which  Garth  is  having 
thinned  out  scientifically,  and  although  it  is 
rich  in  red  spruce  and  pine,  there  is  but  little 
birch.  The  dead  pine  and  cedar  make  a 
glorious  fire,  full  of  vim  and  vigor,  with  lots 
of  snap  and  little  crackling  forest  noises  and 
lavish  display  of  sparks;  and  when  to  such 
is  added  a  huge  oak  log,  or  great  blocks  of 
maple,  we  can  be  sure  of  fire  on  our  hearth 
all  night  —  in  the  dead  of  winter  —  with 
nothing  to  show  for  it  in  the  morning  but  a 
little  heap  of  fine  white  ash,  so  perfect  — 
Garth  says  —  is  the  combustion.  The  other 
day  he  came  back  from  a  tramp  up  the  moun- 
tain with  a  beatific  expression  and  an  armful 
of  dried  sumac  branches .  Such  a  white  blaze 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  IIQ 


as  the  satiny  yellow-green  wood  made,  and 
such  a  fusilade  of  noise.  Garth,  like  the  van- 
dal he  was,  stood  and  chortled  with  glee. 
The  Major,  it  seemed,  aware  of  the  commer- 
cial possibilities  of  sumac,  had  never 
permitted  a  stick  of  it,  no  matter  how 
crooked,  to  be  burnt. 

You  would  love  Garth's  expression  when 
he  rises  to  tend  the  fire;  there  is  the  radiance 
and  worship  and  wonder  of  possession,  and  a 
dozen  times  of  an  evening  he  will  bend  solici- 
tously over  it,  weighing  with  almost  maternal 
anxiety  our  chances  for  seeing  the  backlog 
fall  into  a  glowing  ruin  as  the  grandfather's 
clock  in  the  hall  chimes  ten.  For  we  gauge 
our  logs  by  the  exigencies  of  our  own  private 
ritual,  which  requires  that  Garth  shall  lay 
the  fire  (I  lacking  both  the  nice  sense  of 
adjustment  and  the  necessary  strength  to 
handle  the  Major's  ancestral  tongs);  that 
together  we  shall  light  it,  extracting  all  the 
comfortable  forest  music  that  has  lain  so  long 
silent;  and  that  when  at  last  the  fire  eats  deep 
into  the  wood,  lovingly,  caressingly,  Garth 
and  I  shall  sit  for  a  while  in  happy, 
contented  silence,  worshiping  at  the  altar  of 
our  home. 


120  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


But  to-night  the  fire  lacks  its  usual  allure; 
it  serves  only  to  make  me  more  restless.  I 
am  not  exactly  unaware  of  the  cause;  it's 
the  first  snowstorm  of  the  season,  and  when 
have  I  ever  failed  to  welcome  the  oncoming 
mantle  of  winter  from  the  crest  of  the  wooded 
hill  beyond  the  meadow?  Father  always 
humored  my  childish  longing  to  get  out  in  the 
snow,  for  he,  too,  loved  the  gale  and  the  driving 
blizzards,  as  well  as  the  splendid  rages  of  our 
mountain  thunderstorms.  It  was  such  joy 
to  trudge  beside  him  through  the  blinding, 
softly  falling  flurry,  past  the  barn  and  the 
tightly  closed  chicken  house,  through  the 
forlorn  relics  of  what  had  been  a  thriving 
vegetable  garden,  across  the  little  lane,  over 
the  bars  —  wave-crested  with  snow,  through 
the  pasture,  taking  careful  observations  of 
well-known  distances  in  order  to  keep  the 
spring  and  the  drinking-hole  to  windward, 
and  then  struggle  up  through  the  sparsely 
wooded  little  hill  that  terminates  in  a  gor- 
geous battle-ground  for  the  four  winds  of 
heaven,  where  you  may  watch  the  swirl  of  the 
blizzard  and  be  buffeted  about  to  your  heart's 
delight.  You,  dear  lady,  with  your  contented 
joy  in  all  things  sane  and  mild,  would  hardly 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  121 


seek  —  of  your  own  accord,  I  fancy  —  the 
buffets  of  the  gale.  But  oh,  how  mellow  and 
warm  and  comforting  is  the  fire  afterward! 

Garth  sends  his  very  dear  love.  He  will 
write  in  a  day  or  two.  For  me,  I  am,  as  I 
shall  always  remain,  your  adoring, 

MIRANDA. 


I" A  letter  from  Miranda  Win-~( 
Lters    to    her    dead    father J 
Dear  Father: 

A  you  once  laughingly  remarked,  I  have 
not  the  plodding  persistence  neces- 
sary for  the  keeping  of  a  journal,  yet 
I  find  that  this  habit  of  writing  to  you  in 
moments  of  stress  or  great  joy,  or  of  indecision, 
grows   on   me.     It  is   like  communing  with 
one's  own  heart,  yet  there  is  something  in 
the  thought  of  you  that  keeps  one  free  from 
the    egoism    that    becomes    the    unconscious 
menace  of  the  keeper  of  diaries. 

I  suppose  that  it  is,  perhaps,  this  transi- 
tion from  individual  life  to  blending  halves 
of  a  harmonious  whole  that  has  set  one  of 
the  halves,  at  least,  probing  about  in  her  own 
consciousness.  The  transition  is  so  subtle 


122  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


that  sometimes  I  am  stung  into  a  sudden  ter- 
ror, reaching  blindly  after  the  lost  entity  that 
was  Miranda  Rowen  —  your  daughter,  dear. 
It's  not  that  I  desire  her  back,  you  know,  I 
would  not  recall  her  if  I  could,  yet  the 
ghost  of  myself  that  was  my  girlhood  haunts 
me  at  times  —  as,  for  instance,  to-night  — 
with  a  gentle  sort  of  reproach  that  grows 
with  the  storm.  For  it  is  snowing  outside, 
darling,  and  I  hear  your  voice  in  the  soft 
swish  of  the  flakes  against  the  library  window. 
It  started  in  at  sunset  —  a  mere  smudge 
against  a  hard,  gray  sky.  We  seem  so  snugly 
shut  in,  the  world  so  comfortably  excluded. 
Martha  is  about,  of  course;  in  the  kitchen, 
I  imagine,  setting  her  sponge  for  the  morn- 
ing's baking.  We  can  hear  her  voice  in  en- 
ergetic protest  to  Snooks,  who  is  very  apt 
at  such  times  to  become  overly  affectionate 
for  an  elderly  feline  Then,  too,  Jim's  lan- 
tern just  bobbed  past  the  bay  window,  so 
that  I  know  he  has  gone  to  say  good-night 
to  Joan  and  dear,  patient-eyed  Griselda,  and 
her  calf  —  now  no  longer  a  baby 

As  for  mother,  she  is  across  the  valley  on 
an  errand  of  mercy.  A  little  child's  first 
cry  will  pierce  a  mother's  heart  to-night.  God 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  123 


send  her  many  happy  years  to  hear  its  laugh- 
ter ....  The  wind  is  rising. 

I  am  back  in  my  old  corner  —  dedicated 
to  the  books  and  pictures  you  loved.  Garth 
prefers  an  easy  chair  by  the  open  fire.  I 
wonder  what  he  is  reading.  What  concen- 
tration men  have!  I  could  never  be  as  un- 
aware of  him  as  he  appears  to  be  of  me  .... 
Oh!  Fm  glad  I  wrote  appears,  for  just  then 
Garth  looked  up  and  caught  my  eyes  upon 
hina  and  smiled. 

"  I  shall  have  to  get  more  weather-stripping 
for  those  windows  if  you're  going  to  sit  away 
over  there,  Miranda.  Why  don't  you  come 
nearer  the  fire  ?  Your  chair  looks  so  empty  — 
not  to  mention  my  arms." 

"What  is  your  book?" 

"Rest  Harrow ',  and  yours?" 

I  blushed  a  little  —  and  thrust  it  back 
among  the  papers.  Garth  shook  his  head 
playfully. 

"I  should  think  you  guilty  of  a  naughty 
French  novel  if  I  did  not  know  you  better. 
I  suppose  it  is  nothing  more  dangerous  than 
a  flower  catalogue." 

Ordinarily  I  hate  equivocation,  but  the 
opportunity  was  too  good. 


124.  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


"It  is  —  after  a  fashion,"  said  I,  smiling 
enigmatically  at  my  order-list  of  baby  caps 
and  socks  that  were  to  go  across  the  valley 
if  all  went  well.  "But  I  was  not  reading; 
I've  been  writing  to  Mathilde,  scribbling  a 
bit  —  and  thinking." 

"Wonderful  Miranda!"  he  cried,  "to  be 
able  to  think.  With  you  so  near,  I  can  only 
feel."  He  held  out  his  arms  to  me  with  such 
a  simple,  longing  gesture  that  I  fled  straight 
from  my  outer  darkness  into  the  warmth  and 
security  of  them  and  the  glow  of  the  log  fire. 

And  so  we  sat  a  while  in  silence,  Garth's 
arm  about  my  waist,  his  long  legs  stretched 
luxuriously  towards  the  glow.  And  presently, 
when  I  stole  a  sidelong  glance  at  him,  I  was 
aware  that  once  more  his  thoughts  coquetted 
deliciously  around  the  maddening  Sanchia 
and  her  poet  lover.  He  felt  my  stirring,  and 
instantly  his  attention  came  back  to  me,  while 
his  smile  enveloped  me  like  a  blessing. 

"Uncomfortable?"  he  asked  solicitously. 

"N  —  no—  " 

"Shall  I  stop  reading,  or  read  to  you?" 

"No,  no,"  I  said,  "but  would  you  mind 
if  —  can  you  get  along  without  me  for  a 
while?" 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  12$ 


"My  dear  child!  what  an  unanswerable 
question!  But  run  along,  of  course." 

I  felt  his  puzzled  gaze  upon  me  as  I  fled. 
If  he  did  not  ache  to  get  out  in  the  storm  I 
could  never  bring  myself  to  make  the  sugges- 
tion; but  for  me,  your  memory  and  the  girl 
I  used  to  be  were  waiting  on  the  hill. 

Martha  looked  a  bit  askance  when  I  emerged 
from  the  old  closet  behind  the  kitchen  stairs 
with  the  result  of  my  rummaging,  but  I  ex- 
plained, with  some  incoherence,  I  imagine, 
that  I  had  some  things  which  required  look- 
ing over,  and  fled  with  my  armful  of  con- 
traband to  the  deserted  dining  room.  There, 
in  the  dark,  laughing  to  myself  in  my  excite- 
ment, I  put  them  on;  wool  leggings,  a  pair 
of  arctics,  a  short  skirt,  the  warm  old  reefer 
of  my  school-girl  days,  a  tam-o-shanter,  with 
a  long  muffler  to  protect  my  forehead  and  tie 
tightly  across  my  ears.  The  venerable  golf 
gloves  were  still  in  my  coat  pocket;  I  drew 
them  on,  and  I  was  ready. 

I  opened  the  hall  door  stealthily;  it  creaked 
a  little,  and  a  swirl  of  arctic  air  swept  down 
the  passageway  and  rattled  the  library  door 
with  tugging  insistence.  I  drew  back  guiltily. 
I  ought,  of  course,  to  tell  Garth,  though  for 


126  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


the  life  of  me  I  could  not  see  why  I  should 
drag  him  from  a  warm  fire  and  a  fascinating 
book,  in  pursuit  of  a  lure  he  did  not  feel; 
and  if  he  could  be  persuaded  not  to  come,  he 
would  worry  all  the  time  I  was  out.  I  de- 
termined upon  a  concession;  I  would  slip 
around  the  house  and  get  Fidelity.  She 
would  be  all  the  guard  I  needed,  and  quite 
beside  herself  at  being  so  honored. 

I  closed  the  door  carefully  behind  me. 
There  was  a  joyous  bark  from  somewhere  on 
the  lawn,  and  a  wild  scampering  of  canine 
feet;  at  the  same  time  a  figure  detached  itself 
from  one  of  the  porch  pillars,  a  figure  muffled 
and  mantled  into  unfamiliarity  —  all  but  the 
dear  voice. 

"Well,  are  you  ready?"  it  said. 

"How on  earth  did  you  guess  ?"  I  stammered. 

"My  dear  child!  you  are  of  a  transparency 
that  is  epatant;  do  you  know  that  in  the  hour 
and  a  half  since  supper  you  have  worn  a  thread- 
bare path  from  the  fireside  to  the  window?" 

"Not  more  than  five  times  —  or  six,  at  the 
most,"  I  protested. 

"And  when  your  restless  little  body  was 
still,  your  soul  stood  staring  longingly  out 
into  the  storm,"  he  laughed. 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


"Why,  then,  didn't  you  invite  me  out?"  I 
asked  reproachfully. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  what  you  would  do.  You 
are  an  awful  coward,  Miranda." 

"And  I  called  you  a  fireside  sluggard,"  I 
retaliated. 

"Besides,  I  didn't  think  you  could  be  so 
selfish  —  shutting  me  out  of  the  night  and  the 
storm,"  he  chided. 

"Instead  of  into  it,  as  you  richly  deserve." 

I  snuggled  close  to  his  conifortable  shoulder 
and  he  peered  at  me  rather  anxiously. 

"Are  you  sure  you're  warm  enough?  That 
coat  —  " 

"Hot  as  toast!  It  ought  to  be  —  it's 
chinchilla." 

"Goodness!"  His  hand  traveled  tenderly 
down  the  length  of  my  arm.  "  Isn't  that  very 
extravagant?" 

"The  cloth,  goosie!  not  the  fur.  One  of 
my  school-girl  relics  that  will  not  wear  out; 
impossible  in  the  daylight  but  consecrated 
to  such  times  as  this."  After  a  moment, 
something  constrained  me  to  add:  "Father 
bought  it  for  me,  years  ago,"  and  I  felt  the 
brooding  tenderness  with  which  Garth  always 
surrounds  me  when  I  talk  or  think  of  you. 


128  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


When  once  we  had  stepped  out  from  the 
comforting  light  of  the  library  windows,  we 
could  scarcely  see  each  other  three  feet  apart. 
Between  the  darkness  and  the  snow,  which 
fell  in  great,  silent  flakes  that  mantled  us  as 
in  a  fog,  we  were  not  nearly  as  well  off  as 
Fidelity,  who,  no  matter  how  widely  she 
capered,  could  always  find  her  way  back. 
So,  as  a  concession  to  the  elements,  we  stopped 
at  the  barn  and  got  a  lantern. 

The  snow  had  not  been  falling  long  enough 
to  make  heavy  walking,  although  it  was  as- 
tonishing how  deeply  it  had  already  piled  up 
in  the  hollow  places.  The  choke  cherries 
and  elder  bushes  that  border  the  lane  had  their 
branches  interlaced  and  weighted  down  by 
a  cottony  nightcap;  while  poor  Fidelity  was 
quite  buried  under  a  heavy  avalanche  when 
Garth  let  down  one  of  the  snow-crested  bars 
to  the  meadow. 

Strange  how  difficult  we  civilized  beings 
find  it  to  steer  a  straight  course  for  anything. 
We  were  headed,  as  we  supposed,  for  the 
little  path  that  leads  up  the  hillside,  yet  we 
brought  up,  instead,  among  the  birches  that 
grace  the  slope  some  twenty  yards  to  the 
right;  the  "Pleiades,"  Garth  calls  them. 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


Fidelity  was  already  darting  through  the 
sumac  and  hazel  bushes,  scattering  shovelfuls 
of  snow  on  her  fat,  lazy  back  as  she  went. 
I  think  that  Garth  was  for  turning  back, 
afraid  that  I  might  stumble  on  some  gnarled 
root  and  sprain  an  ankle,  or  otherwise  come 
to  grief,  but  while  he  was  debating  whether 
or  not  to  call  a  halt,  Fidelity  and  I  had  emerged 
from  the  tangle  of  bushes  into  which  we  had 
somewhat  rashly  plunged,  and  found  our- 
selves on  the  edge  of  a  bit  of  woodland,  wait- 
ing for  him  and  his  lantern  to  catch  up. 

It  was  not  nearly  so  cold  aftei  we  passed  the 
first  hickories;  although  the  timber  is  light 
it  broke  the  wind,  so  that  we  scarcely  felt  its 
force  at  all;  the  ground  was  firmer  and  barely 
covered  with  a  thin  layer  of  snow,  and  the 
walking  was  not  nearly  so  heavy  as  it  had  been 
in  the  meadow. 

The  air  was  so  clean,  so  frosty,  so  life-giv- 
ing, one  could  fairly  taste  the  tang  of  the 
balsams  in  it.  We  stood  still  and  drew  it 
in  —  long,  tingling  breaths  that  sent  the 
blood  racing  to  our  finger-tips.  Then,  very 
carefully,  and  depending  wholly  upon  our 
lantern,  for  our  ascent  through  the  bushes 
had  bewildered  us,  we  began  to  pick  our  way 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


upwards,  keeping  a  sharp  lookout  for  the 
little  patch  of  hemlocks  —  for  through  them 
ran  our  errant  path.  It  wasn't  really  hard 
to  find;  Garth  pretended  that  he  had  known 
where  it  was  all  along,  but  that  he  had  wanted 
to  see  how  much  good  my  woodcraft  would 
be  in  a  snowstorm. 

As  we  neared  the  top  of  the  hill  we  began 
to  catch  the  force  of  the  wind  again.  When 
we  came  out  suddenly  from  the  shelter  of  the 
straggling  fringe  of  trees  upon  the  open  ridge 
heads  lowered  to  the  gale,  we  found  that  the 
nature  of  the  snow  had  changed  while  we  had 
been  under  comparative  cover.  Little,  hard, 
white  spheres  came  tearing  and  tumbling 
down  the  wind  like  so  many  millions  of  sugar 
pellets  that  stung  and  cut  our  faces;  they 
filled  up  the  hollow  places  and  slapped  the 
angle  of  the  ridge,  spraying  out  from  it  into 
a  blinding  spoondrift  at  our  feet. 

I  caught  my  breath  and  steadied  myself, 
shoulder  to  shoulder  with  Garth.  Far  be- 
neath us  we  knew  the  land  rolled  away  in 
beautiful  sweeping  curves  to  the  river,  but 
we  could  see  nothing  but  a  dizzy  blur  as  we 
gazed  into  the  driving  snow.  Even  the  lan- 
tern's rays  were  powerless  to  pierce  it,  though 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  131 


when  we  turned  our  backs  to  the  wind,  every 
tree  and  shrub  was  brought  out  sharply  in  the 
soft  light. 

When  Garth  finally  broke  the  silence,  it 
was  by  a  commonplace: 

"Are  you  cold?" 

"No  —  but  I  suppose  we'd  better  start 
back.  The  meadow  will  be  pretty  bad  by 
now,  it  is  piling  up  so." 

Not  a  word  did  he  say  on  the  descent,  ex- 
cept when  I  bumped  against  a  sapling  and  was 
given  a  frozen  shower-bath  for  my  clumsiness. 
Once  at  the  foot,  we  decided  on  the  more 
sheltered  —  if  longer  —  way  home  through 
the  lane  and  around  the  front,  rather  than 
face  the  fury  of  the  wind  across  the  meadow 
again.  We  turned  in  at  the  carriage  drive, 
where  your  splendid  Weymouth  pine,  still 
proudly  erect,  spread  its  broad  shoulders  to 
the  threatened  burden,  and  up  the  path  be- 
tween the  ghostly,  hoop-skirted  rose  bushes, 
asleep  'neath  their  snug  straw  petticoats. 

Jim  was  found  waiting  for  Fidelity  and  the 
lantern.  Martha  had  gone  to  bed.  Garth 
began  talking  enticingly  of  something  warm 
and  stimulating  —  mulled  wine,  accomplished 
with  the  aid  of  a  poker  drawn  red-hot  from 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


among  the  embers  of  our  deserted  fire  —  and 
meanwhile  we  stamped  the  snow  from  our 
feet  and  shook  it  from  coats  and  caps,  while 
the  light  from  the  open  hall  door  —  our 
door!  —  shone  welcomingly  upon  us. 

At  the  threshold  Garth  stopped  me. 

"Have  you  had  enough?  Are  you  quite 
satisfied,  little  gypsy?" 

"Quite  —  and  thank  you."  I  felt  shy  as 
a  child.  "You'll  forgive  me  for  running 
away?" 

"Always!  if  you  will  take  me  with  you." 

"I  did  not  know;  I  was  afraid  you  would 
not  care  to  come." 

"Am  I  so  old?" 

"No  — no." 

"So  sensible?" 

"You  are  divinely  foolish,"  I  murmured, 
my  face  against  his  coat  sleeve. 

"Then  do  not  run  away  again,  dear  heart. 
I  cannot  bear  to  let  you  go  through  any  ex- 
periences alone." 

"You  might  have  to  —  sometime!" 

The  silence  tingled  between  us.    Then: 

"Miranda!"  Against  the  ruddy  lamplight 
his  face  shone  white,  and  I  knew  he  thought 
of  the  woman  in  the  valley. 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


"God  made  women  so,"  I  said,  my  voice 
trembling  a  bit,  though  I  tried  to  keep  it 
steady. 

Oh,  the  silence!  the  rush  and  whirl  of  the 
falling  snow!  the  infinite  mystery  of  the  com- 
monplace life  we  live ! 

The  warmth  of  the  hall,  stinging  lips  and 
cheeks  a-tingle  with  healthy  blood;  the  mys- 
tery of  our  presence  here — who  were  not  here 
yesterday,  and  must  needs  be  gone  to-morrow, 
that  others  may  wonder  and  theorize  as  we 
did! 

Something  hummed  in  my  ears;  it  was 
Garth's  voice,  vibrating,  tender.  But  he  had 
to  speak  twice  before  I  heard  him  rightly. 

Dear,  dead  father,  the  great  "why "of  life 
grows  clearer.  Sometimes  I  catch  faint  echoes 
of  the  answer  —  and  always,  always,  it  is  in 
the  voice  of  a  little  child. 


PART  VI 


THE  GARDEN  OF  DREAMS 


YE    DARKLYNGE     WO  D  E 

[A  letter  from  Samuel  Garth  Winters'] 
to    his  friend,     Mathilde    Bursey\ 

June  1 2th,  19 — 
Dear  Mathilde: 

HOW  provoking  that,  after  all,  I  had 
to  leave  New  York  without  saying 
good-bye.  As  you  know,  I  had  an 
appointment  with  Merrick  in  the  afternoon, 
but  as  he  was  to  have  the  contracts  in  readi- 
ness I  did  not  anticipate  being  more  than  an 
hour  at  most;  instead  of  which  it  was  nearly 
five  o'clock  before  I  got  away.  They  had 
arranged  that  Kaufman  — the  young  man 
who  is  to  make  the  illustrations  —  should  be 
there.  He's  an  ingenuous  young  fellow,  as 
yet  utterly  unspoiled.  This  is  his  first  big 
commission,  and  he's  engagingly  anxious  to 
make  good.  I  was  glad  to  meet  him  and  give 
him  what  suggestions  I  could ;  thus  the  after- 
noon was  gone  before  I  knew  it. 

So  you  were  glad  that  I  had  justified  your 
opinion  of  me?  How  could  a  man  do  other- 
137 


138  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


wise,  with  two  such  women  as  you  and  Mi- 
randa looking  into  his  eyes  and  swearing  that 
he  was  no  idle  parasite  and  must  eventually 
take  up  his  work  where  he  had  laid  it  down? 
Miranda  suggested  the  theme,  knowing  in- 
tuitively it  must  possess  me  and  drive  me  back 
to  my  desk  again.  I  am  more  than  grateful 
to  her  for  it,  for  without  some  such  work  to 
anchor  my  imaginings  upon,  they  would  do  me 
havoc,  I  fear,  in  the  months  that  are  before 
me.  Ah  Mathilde,  how  shall  I  tell  you  what 
has  befallen  your  friend?  how  shall  I  make 
you  share  in  the  mystery  that  has  crowned 
me  richest  among  men?  I  run  to  you  as  to 
a  mother,  for  have  you  not  indeed  mothered 
all  that  was  best  in  my  soul  since  first  I  met 
you? 

Always,  Mathilde,  I  have  loved  the  woods 
at  night;  always,  then,  the  forest- world 
seemed  to  hold  some  special  message  for 
me;  but  that  life's  consummation  should 
be  wrought  so  sweetly,  so  simply,  so  absolutely 
in  sacred  harmony  with  God's  great  plan, 
has  stirred  in  me  a  mood  of  grateful  wonder 
in  which  the  rest  of  my  days  shall  be  spent. 

As  once  before  I  had  come  back  to  the  little 
village  that  had  given  me  birth  at  sunrise, 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  139 


so  yesterday  I  came  at  sunset,  and  started 
to  walk  home  up  the  mountain,  choosing  — 
instead  of  the  longer  way  by  the  high-road  — 
to  cut  through  the  woods,  a  road  Miranda  and 
I  always  take  from  the  station.  I  had  had 
the  full  glory  of  the  setting  sun  through  the 
car  windows.  So  poignant  its  beauty  —  like 
quick  ascending  thirds  upon  a  violin  that 
seem  unbearably  sweet  —  that  I  loitered  along 
the  road  in  the  afterglow,  prolonging  the 
home-coming  till  I  should  grow  calm.  I 
thought  of  the  house  waiting  for  me  —  all 
the  doors  set  open  to  welcome  the  evening 
freshness;  the  scared  gathering  twilight  bath- 
ing with  mystery  familiar  corners;  the  frag- 
rance of  the  mountain-laurel  which  Miranda 
would  have  brought  in  bodily  from  the  woods; 
and  on  the  porch  —  or  somewhere  out  in  the 
garden  —  Miranda,  the  marvelous! 

At  the  thought  I  quickened  my  pace.  I 
shook  the  riotous  evening  scents  from  my 
nostrils,  blinked  away  the  memory  of  pines 
and  jutting  outlined  hill  a-drip  with  sunset, 
and  in  time  to  the  duet  of  a  pair  of  hoarse- 
voiced  tree-toads,  and  the  answering  chorus 
of  the  crickets,  growing  bolder  as  the  twilight 
faded,  turned  sharply  off  the  high-road,  leav- 


140  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


ing  the  last  iridescent  shimmering  light  —  a 
dust  of  mother-of-pearl,  that  floated,  impalp- 
able yet  transfiguring,  over  all  the  familiar 
landscape  —  behind  me. 

But  chancing  upon  a  talkative  neighbor 
I  did  not,  after  all,  enter  the  woods  till  the 
stars  peeped  out  one  by  one  and  the  last 
sleepy  little  robin  had  said  its  drowsy  good- 
night. 

How  sweet  the  air  was!  How  intoxicat- 
ingly  fragrant  the  woods  are  on  a  summer 
evening.  Especially  when  the  breeze,  blowing 
fitfully,  brings  whiffs  of  Betram's  haycocks 
and  spicy  puffs  of  mint  from  the  upland  pas- 
ture, to  mingle  with  the  oily  redolence  of  the 
witch-hazel,  a  scent  of  sweet-fern  like  the 
flick  of  Miranda's  handkerchief  fresh  from  the 
basket  where  she  keeps  them,  or  fragrance 
from  the  elders  by  the  lane.  Even  the  weeds 
that  border  the  high-road  give  out  a  pungent 
odor  which  at  so  great  a  distance  is  far  from 
unpleasant. 

I  stumbled  along  slowly,  my  hands  in  my 
pockets,  sniffing  luxuriously  as  I  went.  Turn- 
ing suddenly  where  the  road  begins  to  ascend 
between  two  great  boulders  that  sentinel  the 
path,  I  saw,  some  fifteen  yards  ahead  of  me, 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


a  light  that  was  too  high  for  a  glow-worm  and 
too  large  for  a  lightning-bug,  and  much  too 
steady  in  its  advance  for  a  will-o'-the-wisp; 
and  all  my  soul  cried  out  —  "Miranda!" 
and  wondered  that  I  had  not  felt  her  coming 
before. 

"What  are  you  doing  in  *ye  darklynge 
wode,'  dear  gadabout?"  I  cried,  content  that 
it  was  she  —  though  the  lantern  searched  out 
my  form  and  left  hers  unrevealed. 


Mine  be  ye  howlets  eies  to-night, 
Ye  sailynge  moone  my  sonne, 

Ye  glo-bugge  for  my  lanterne  brite, 
And  humanite  my  gunne. 

she  quoted  back,  gayly  enough.  But  her 
voice  had  an  unearthly  brilliancy  that  struck 
weirdly  across  the  space  between  us,  so  that 
I  was  glad  to  have  her  in  my  arms  —  to  know 
her  very  real  and  warm  and  mobile  to  my 
kisses. 

"  If  you  must  come  prowling  about  disturb- 
ing the  sleeping  wood,"  I  chided  jestingly, 
"at  least  you  should  be  content  with  the  glo- 
bugge's  light;  you  should  not  come  into  the 
forest  nursery  with  a  lantern." 

"It  is  incongruous,  isn't  it?"  asked  Miranda 
softly. 

"Horribly!"  I  whispered.     "Put  it  out." 


142  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


"And  yet  no  mother  fears  to  wake  her  babes 
by  peering  too  searchingly  into  their  faces." 

"How  do  you  know?"  I  scoffed,  taking  the 
lantern  from  Miranda's  unresisting  hand.  I 
held  it  aloft  to  study  her  face  a  single  blessed 
moment  before  I  should  put  out  the  light,  and 
at  something  I  saw  there,  forgot  it  entirely. 

"Have  you  been  well?"  I  asked  with  sudden 
brusque  anxiety. 

"Yes  —  quite  well.  It  is  a  nursery,  isn't 
it,  Garth?" 

"Have  you  missed  me?" 

" No,"  she  fibbed  unblushingly.  "  I've  been 
much  too  busy.  There!  Did  you  say  the 
woods  were  asleep  ?" 

We  broke  into  sudden  laughter.  From 
somewhere  up  above  us  —  in  the  branches, 
no  doubt,  of  the  tree  under  which  we  stood  — 
a  fretful  catbird  reproachfully  squawked 
that  we  would  wake  her  babies.  A  white 
moth  sailed  majestically  past,  mildly  interested 
in  our  lantern ;  the  leaves  pattered  and  rustled 
overhead,  a  thousand  little  insect  noises  spoke 
to  our  acutely-tuned  perception. 

"Do  you  catch  it,  the  fragrance?"  asked 
Miranda  in  an  awed  whisper. 

"Which  one?    There  are  so  many." 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  143 


"The  warm,  loamy  smell,  the  spiciness  of 
wet  tree-bark,  the  dank  moldiness  of  lichens 
somewhere  about,  the  earth  smell!  I  know 
of  nothing  more  intoxicating.  I  could  get 
down  on  my  knees  and  press  my  face  to  the 
ground  —  but  that  you  miss  it  so,  just  as 
burying  your  nose  in  a  rose  is  by  no  means 
the  best  way  to  get  its  sweetness." 

"You  have  forgotten  the  smell  of  the  moun- 
tain-laurel," I  reproached  playfully.  I  held 
the  lantern  up  over  my  head,  for  the  rhododen- 
drons were  above  us  on  the  hillside,  growing 
thicker,  with  more  rope-like,  ancient  roots 
towards  the  summit  —  where  the  rain  washes 
away  the  earth  from  around  its  feet.  The 
beautiful  clusters  of  pink-white  blooms  always 
tempt  me  —  in  spite  of  the  sticky  fingers  you 
get  in  plucking  them. 

"I'll  get  you  those,"  I  said,  "though  I 
suppose  you  have  the  house  filled  with  them 
as  usual." 

"Not  now,"  said  Miranda  softly,  with  face 
—  I  thought  —  averted  from  my  gaze.  "  I 
have  not  brought  a  single  branch  into  the 
house  since  you  left." 

"Why?"  I  exclaimed,  studying  Miranda's 
profile  in  genuine  bewilderment.  There  was 


144  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


something  I  had  never  seen  there  before; 
something  alluring,  mysterious,  compelling. 
Her  gray  eyes,  as  she  turned  them  on  me, 
seemed  fuller,  more  liquid;  her  brow  more 
noblej 

"  Why  ?"  I  repeated.  "  I  thought  you  loved 
the  laurel  so." 

"Not  half  well  enough,"  she  protested. 
"But  then  I  never  understood  before.  Now 
that  I  do,  I  could  not  bear  to  bring  a  single 
branch  into  the  house  —  to  cheat  it  of  its 
mission.  Haven't  you  ever  noticed  how  long 
they  keep  fresh  indoors  ?" 

"Isn't  that  most  desirable?" 

She  hesitated.  I  confess  that  I  did  not 
follow  her.  My  wood-lore  was  of  the  prac- 
tical country-boy  variety;  Miranda  has  seen 
the  world  of  growing  things  through  the  sen- 
sitive eyes  of  her  father.  Her  face  flushed 
adorably  under  my  gaze,  and  she  moved  a 
little  up  the  slope  to  the  first  clump  of  rho- 
dodendrons. 

"Don't  you  understand?"  she  whispered 
shyly.  "They  keep  longer  in  the  house  be- 
cause they  are  waiting;  waiting  with  hopeful 
hearts  for  a  possible  release.  Oh,  can't  you 
see  the  pity  of  it?"  She  laughed;  there  was 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  145 


a  little  hysterical  ring  in  her  voice.  "The 
dear  things !  You  will  think  me  silly,  perhaps. 
They  are  like  sweet  old  ladies  who  keep  their 
virginal  hearts  fresh  and  young  for  the  lovers 
who  never  come." 

"Why  Miranda!"  I  cried;  and  again  — 
"  Why  Miranda !  Sweetheart !" 

"Hush!     Look  there!"  she  whispered. 

A  tiny,  narrow-winged  moth  was  hovering 
over  a  flower.  It  was  a  fresh  flower,  newly 
opened;  one  could  see  that  from  its  color, 
and  also  from  the  snug,  taut  way  in  which 
the  anthers  were  tucked  into  their  little  cradle- 
like  pouches.  But  even  as  Miranda  spoke, 
the  little  visitor  lighted  softly  on  the  blossom, 
and  though  you  would  have  said  so  gentle  a 
touch  could  never  waken  anything,  the  sta- 
mens bent  over  and  above  the  sweet  robber, 
caging  him  long  enough  to  shower  their  gold 
upon  him,  so  that  when  he  finally  emerged 
Miranda  and  I  declared  that  he  looked  quite 
breathless  and  distraught. 

She  bent  and  brushed  with  her  lips  the  rifled 
bloom. 

"You  sweet  thing!"  she  whispered.  "You 
sweet  thing!  To-morrow  you  will  be  quite 
old  and  withered,  perhaps.  But  don't  you 


14.6  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


care —  you  will  not  have  lived  in  vain." 
Then,  her  face  all  a-brim  with  tender  trouble, 
her  eyes  swimming  in  happy  tears,  she  turned 
and  threw  herself  into  my  arms. 

"Oh  Garth!  Garth!"  she  sobbed. 

My  heart  stood  still.  A  wave  of  flame  shot 
downwards  to  my  feet,  Mathilde,  then  up  to 
my  heart,  and  stayed  there.  I  no  longer 
needed  to  ask  what  was  the  mysterious  al- 
chemy that  had  changed  my  violet  to  a  rose. 
I  had  no  need  for  words  at  all  —  nor  had 
Miranda.  Thus  was  life's  accolade  bestowed 
upon  me;  the  chrism,  night  and  silence. 

Bless    us,    Mathilde.    We    are    so  wholly 
wrapt  in  wonder,  we  are  like  little  children 
who  for  the  first  time  see  the  stars. 
Affectionately, 

SAMUEL. 
*   *   * 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  14.7 


TA  letter  from  Samuel  Garth  Winters'] 
Lto    his  friend,    Mathilde    Burseyl 

October  5th,  19 — 
Dear  Mathilde: 

HOW  shall  we  thank  you,  Miranda  and 
I?  For  me,  I  am  lost  in  wonder  be- 
fore such  marvels  of  needlework. 
Pray,  Madam,  is  it  a  trousseau  for  a  fairy? 
Miranda,  at  my  side,  is  still  harping  on  the 
stitches.  Such  tiny  stitches  she  affirms, 
could  never  have  been  made  by  anyone  but 
you.  And  though  you  so  modestly  remind  us 
that  your  eyes  grow  old  and  that  you  can  no 
longer  do  credit  to  the  French  sister  who 
painstakingly  taught  you,  we  are  disposed 
to  doubt  you.  There  was  not  in  all  that  con- 
vent class  your  peer,  Mathilde;  and  sweet 
fibber  that  you  are,  you  know  it. 

Miranda,  with  many  a  dubious  frown,  has 
gone  back  to  her  own  work.  Poor  child! 
I  believe  she  is  honestly  distressed  that  she 
cannot  live  up  to  your  standard,  for  just  now 
she  showed  me  a  damp  and  mussed-up  little 
yoke,  and  indicating  yours,  whispered:  "You 
don't  think  he'll  see  the  difference,  do  you?" 
And  when  I  mumbled  my  assurance  to  the 


14-8  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


roughened  forefinger,  she  chid  me  gently  for 
laughing  at  her  dreams. 

"Your  seams,  you  mean,"  I  teased.  At 
which  she  pricked  once  more  her  unaccus- 
tomed fingers.  For  Miranda,  while  in  all 
the  essentials  the  most  womanly  creature 
alive,  has  always  had  a  curious  disdain  of 
the  purely  feminine  arts.  She  would  rather 
plant  cabbages  than  cook  them;  could  easier 
weed  a  garden  than  sweep  a  room;  prefers 
currying  Joan  to  washing  dishes.  Such  being 
the  case,  her  voluntary  announcement  that 
she  would  leave  to  no  other  hands  than  hers 
the  preparation  of  that  wonderful  wardrobe, 
filled  me  with  a  curious  misgiving  —  a  mere 
man's  clumsy  fear  that  herein  was  something 
from  which  he  was  to  be  excluded.  It  was 
wholly  selfish,  I  admit;  for  so  long  as  I  knew 
her  reading  with  me,  writing  with  me,  tramp- 
ing miles  at  my  side,  or  sitting  silent  before 
the  fire  at  my  knee,  I  was  content  to  speak 
no  word.  I  was  secretly  proud,  too,  of  the 
manner  in  which  I  accomplished  certain 
unusual  tasks:  the  enameling  of  a  pretty 
wicker  basket  Miranda  had  ordered,  and  the 
rigging  up  of  certain  ridiculous  ruffles  and 
curtains  for  it;  the  choice  of  a  room  for  a 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  149 


nursery,  and  the  evolving  of  screens  and 
shelves  of  enameled  wood.  But  when  Mi- 
randa retired  behind  a  pile  of  snowy,  billowy 
things,  and  proceeded  to  tease  the  patient 
goods  with  absurd  tucks  and  puckers  —  her 
brow  all  furrowed  up  the  while,  and  not  a 
thought  for  me  —  I  confess  to  a  left-out-in- 
the-cold  feeling,  a  suspicion  that  right  here  was 
where  I  became  entirely  superfluous.  Mi- 
randa, looking  up  from  a  puzzling  problem  of 
lace  or  embroidery,  pink  ribbons  or  blue, 
saw  me  perched  on  the  hearth-rug  in  some- 
thing of  the  attitude  of  the  traditional  stork 
that  was  supposed  to  be  hovering  over  my 
roof-tree.  She  broke  into  a  low  ripple  of 
delicious  laughter. 

"  You  dear  boy!  If  you  don't  go  to  work  — 
instead  of  standing  there  glooming  —  I  shall 
set  you  to  sewing  on  buttons." 

"Do  you  think  I  could?"  I  cried,  eagerly 
enough  —  little  dreaming  what  I  was  getting 
into.  For  I  sewed  them  on,  Mathilde  —  that 
is,  as  soon  as  I  could  get  hold  of  the  ridicu- 
lously tiny  things,  and  educate  my  clumsy 
fingers  to  hold  so  fragile  an  implement  as  a 
needle  fine  enough  to  go  through  their  absurd 
holes. 


150  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


It  took  me  an  hour  to  sew  on  three  buttons. 
Dear  Lord!  What  patience  women  have. 
Miranda  said  —  with  demure  lips  and  hidden 
eyes  —  that  I  had  done  very  well.  But  since 
then  I  have  been  content  to  write  away  on  the 
story  that  is  to  bring  luxuries  and  wonderful 
electric  toys  for  the  boy.  Miranda  laughs 
when  I  tell  her  that.  She  says  he  will  need 
no  toys  for  the  first  year  except  his  own  little 
toes  and  fingers  and  the  sun-birds  on  the  floor 
and  wall.  Ah  well!  what  matter?  I  pretend 
to  myself  that  I  must  finish  this  novel  before 
next  Christmas,  that  he  may  have  the  most 
gorgeous  tree  and  the  most  wonderful  stock- 
ing that  ever  a  baby  boy  possessed.  And  the 
pretense  is  an  inspiring  one;  for  oh,  the 
joy  of  planning  something  to  do  for  the  tiny 
being  that  is  to  be  mine  as  well  as  Miranda's. 

I  chafe  at  the  thought  that  his  father  can 
do  nothing  —  absolutely  nothing  —  for  him 
now.  But  later  —  ah,  later  we  shall  see! 
I  am  quite  sure  that  I  have  never  written 
anything  worth  writing  before;  I  am  equally 
certain  that  after  the  boy  comes  I  shall  write 
with  a  pen  of  fire. 

Miranda  joins  me  in  sending  her  very  dear- 
est love.  She  would  have  me  say  that  she 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  151 


will  write  tomorrow,  and  that  she  wants  to 
be  remembered  to  all  your  dear  ones.  For 
me,  I  am  always, 

Your  devoted  friend, 
SAMUEL  GARTH  WINTERS. 


'A  letter  from  Samuel  Garth  W inter s"\ 
,to     his     friend,    Mathilde  Bursey] 

December  nth,  19 — 
Dear  Mathilde: 

ONCE   more   we   are  "enclosed  in  a 
tumultuous    privacy  of  storm,"  but 
this  time  no  short-skirted  gypsy  braves 
the  driving  blizzard  with  me.    Instead,  dear 
child,  how  she  sleeps!  sleeps  for  the  babe  and 
herself  (the  boy,  I  had  almost  said,  for  some- 
how we  are  both  very  sure  it  will  be  a  boy). 

For  two  days  now  the  blizzard  has  raged 
from  the  northeast.  Jim  has  shoveled  a  path 
to  the  barns,  but  except  for  that  the  house  is 
up  to  its  knees  in  snow,  all  its  fair  propor- 
tions lost.  The  library  windows,  for  instance, 
look  exceedingly  ridiculous,  opening  as  they 
do  directly  on  a  new  ground-level,  the  veranda 
steps  are  playing  hide  and  seek,  while  no  one 
would  suspect  the  presence  of  a  back  porch, 


1 52  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


for  the  snow,  swept  across  the  meadow  by  a 
driving  wind,  is  much  higher  than  the  railings. 

During  the  day  the  sun  came  out  and  chased 
deep  indigo  shadows  across  the  lawn,  and  a 
brisk  breeze  swept  the  fine  snow  in  playful 
scurries  before  it.  "A  soft,  white  baby- 
world,  all  done  up  in  cotton-batting  and 
swansdown  capes,"  Miranda  called  it;  and 
—  little  wretch !  —  I  had  much  ado  to  keep  her 
from  sallying  forth  with  broom  and  shovel.  As 
it  is,  I  suspect  her  of  having  snowballed 
Jim  longer  than  was  judicious  —  though  she 
chided  me  for  an  old  molly-coddle  when  I 
brought  her  in. 

We  watched  a  flamboyant  red-rimmed  sun 
sink  behind  the  utmost  pinkish-purple  hill 
this  afternoon.  For  a  while  a  single  copper- 
burnished  light  lingered;  then  vanished  sud- 
denly as  though  a  puff  of  wind  had  put  it 
out.  The  pines,  a  bit  more  purply  black  then 
the  purplish  mountains,  the  snow  a  little 
lighter  gray  than  the  sky;  we  shall  revel  — 
please  God!  — in  these  impressionistic  studies 
all  winter. 

Your  solicitude  for  Miranda  is  very  dear 
to  me,  Mathilde.  But  you  need  have  no  fear 
for  her.  No  blossom  in  her  garden  ever 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  153 


matured  more  sweetly.  I  have  found  no 
trace  of  the  whims  and  moods  that  our  in- 
tensive civilization  breeds  in  most  women; 
only  an  added  sweetness  as  the  days  go  by. 
I  have  watched  her  closely  —  probing  with 
anxious  heart  for  a  trace  of  that  dread  which 
would  be  but  natural.  One  day  I  found  her 
sitting  in  the  sunset  glow,  her  eyes  on  the 
purple  hills  beyond.  Her  face,  in  the  hallow- 
ing light,  was  filled  with  awe,  a  wonder  so 
profound,  that  I  almost  cried  out.  She  heard 
the  half-repressed  exclamation  and  turned. 

"I  startled  you,"  I  murmured  apologetic- 
ally. "I  did  not  know  you  were  here." 

"Oh,  Garth,  isn't  it  wonderful?  I'm  so 
bewilderingly  happy  —  and  so  frightened." 

"Frightened?"  I  had  gathered  her  up  in 
my  arms  in  a  moment.  " Frightened  of  what? 
You  must  not  think  of  that,  beloved;  you 
must  not  let  —  '; 

"Oh!  You  thought  I  meant  of  —  death? 
Dear  heart,  I  shall  not  die;  I  never  think  of 
that.  I  believe  God  must  have  promised 
me  sometime  in  my  sleep  that  He  would  not 
let  me  die;  I  feel  so  certain  of  it  —  so  relieved 
from  any  doubt." 

"Of  what,  then?" 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


"The  mystery,  dear;  the  maddening,  elu- 
sive, unsolvable  'Whyness  of  the  Why,'  as 
Father  used  to  call  it.  Sometimes  the  thought 
of  it  bears  me  to  a  Heaven  in  which  I  can 
scarce  breathe  for  joy;  at  other  times  I  am  so 
frightened,  so  overawed,  so  crushed  —  be- 
wildered —  confused  —  that  I  want  to  cry 
aloud,  to  run  out  into  the  dark  and  hide  in 
the  woods  —  Oh !  so  Eve  must  have  felt  that 
first  bewildered  night  outside  of  Eden." 

I  hushed  her  gently  in  my  arms.  I  could 
sympathize  because  I  could  understand ;  only, 
I  had  breasted  the  perplexing  sea  of  questions 
years  ago,  and  landed  safely  on  the  other  shore 
—  with  you  to  help  me.  That  for  most  of 
us  life  goes  on  unconsciously,  is  no  doubt  for- 
tunate. Weak  brains  unhinge  when,  for  the 
first  time,  they  catch  a  glimpse  of  inexorable 
law. 

But  Miranda  is  not  weak  —  nor  is  she 
cowardly.  Very  soon  she  was  laughing  with 
me  as  we  strove  to  outdo  each  other  in  de- 
scriptions of  the  very  tangible  reality  that 
would  soon  be  the  balance-wheel  for  two 
erratic  natures.  Suddenly  she  shook  her  head. 

"He  won't  help  matters  one  little  bit.  He 
will  be  just  such  a  wonderer  as  you  and  I, 


The  Garden  of  Dreams 


and  some  day  we  will  catch  him  pinching  his 
rosy  limbs  black  and  blue  to  make  very  sure 
that  he's  wide  awake." 

"He  will  never  be  wide  awake,"  I  amended. 
"How  could  he  be  —  in  the  Garden  of 
Dreams  ?" 

Miranda  drew  her  straight  brows  into  a 
becoming  little  line  of  maternal  decisiveness 
that  I  am  learning  to  watch  for,  as  she  an- 
swered : 

"Then  we  will  have  to  put  him  outside  the 
Garden  just  long  enough  to  wake  him  up. 
Oh  yes,  dear  heart;  don't  shake  your  head 
and  look  reproaches.  It  is  wrong  —  though 
very  comfortable,  I  admit  —  to  go  through 
life  in  a  gray  haze." 

"Even  when  it  is  rose-lined?" 

"  Even  when  it  reflects  the  glories  of  a  thou- 
sand sunsets.  I  am  more  truly  awake  than  I 
ever  was  before,  and  even  now  —  "  she  smiled 
shyly  —  "my  days  are  poppy-seasoned." 
Then,  with  a  little  catch  in  her  breath:  "I 
shall  welcome  even  pain  that  quickens  me  to 
life!" 

What  I  answered  does  not  matter.  I  am 
ashamed  to  say  that  I  am  the  cowardly  one, 
needing  constant  encouragement  and  support. 


1 56  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


Oh,  Mathilde  —  if  —  if  I  should  lose  her! 
Write  to  me,  Mathilde,  comfort  me,  encourage 
me.  She  is  so  divinely  dear  and  sweet  as  the 
time  approaches  that  the  thought  of  what  she 
must  bear  for  me  maddens  me  with  self- 
reproach  and  fear.  I  cannot  write  more. 
I  must  pretend  to  be  busy  with  some  trifle 
in  her  service;  must  see  that  she  sleeps  com- 
fortably, that  the  windows  are  as  she  likes 
them.  If  I  might  bear  it  for  her!  If  I  might 
bear  it  for  her! 

SAMUEL. 


*    *    * 


VA  letter  from  Samuel  Garth  Winters'} 
Lto   his   friend,    Mathilde    Bursey\ 

January  29th,  19 — 

YOU  will  want  to  know  at  once,  Ma- 
thilde.     Somewhere,  far  back  in  my 
consciousness  is  the  thought.     I  hold 
on  to  it,  as  a  child  holds  its  mother's  hand 
in  the  dark.     I  force  myself  to  write  that  I 
may  not  entirely  exhaust  the  patience  of  the 
household. 

How  garrulous  that  old  clock  is!  It  ticks 
above  the  stillness  of  the  library  with  an 
inexorable  rhythm  that  is  maddening.  There 


The  Garden  of  Dreams  157 


is  no  wind  stirring  across  the  muffled  valley, 
and  within,  no  sound  except  the  occasional 
light  tread  of  the  nurse. 

The  doctor  has  just  been  down.  He  is  a 
dear  old  fellow,  whom  I  remember  as  a  boy. 
He  offered  to  sit  with  me  a  while,  but  I  could 
not  stand  his  chatter  —  thinking  of  the  flight 
of  stairs  and  the  long  hall  that  separated  him 
from  Miranda. 

Martha  comes  in  from  time  to  time  to  fresh- 
en the  fire  or  to  force  on  me  some  coffee;  her 
hearty  country  manners  have  softened 
down  to  a  quiet,  unobtrusive  sympathy. 
Miranda's  mother  does  not  leave  her  for  a 
moment.  What  a  selfish  convention  that  per- 
mits man  to  screen  himself  from  sight  of  pain 
in  such  an  hour!  Mothers  of  mankind! 
what  have  they  not  borne  for  us  ? 

I  thought  I  heard  —  Oh,  do  they  think 
they  can  keep  me  out,  with  Miranda's  soul 
crying  out  to  mine  through  the  darkness? 

Morning. 

There's  a  ghostly,  reluctant  dawn  streaking 
the  east  behind  the  snow-swathed  hills,  Ma- 
thilde;  but  I  read  the  promise  of  spring  into 
everything,  for  a  moment  since,  across  the 
head  of  our  little  son,  Miranda  stretched  out 


1 $8  The  Garden  of  Dreams 


a  weak  hand  to  me,  and  whispered  adoringly: 

"He's  real!  He  doesn't  vanish  when  I 
touch  him,  Garth!" 

"Our  little  son!"  I  whispered  back  —  my 
soul  worshiping. 

"All  —  our  —  dreams  —  come  true!"  she 
murmured  reverently;  and  like  a  tired  child, 
with  sweetly  drowsy  eyes,  floated  off  to  fresh 
dreamlands  filled  with  promise  for  the  mor- 
row. 

So  has  been  born  to  us,  and  to  our  Garden 
of  Dreams,  a  little  son.  God  keep  his  heart 
forever  clean  as  now,  that  he  may  never  cause 
his  mother  pain,  that  he  may  never  be  cast 
without  the  Garden  and  find  himself  groping 
blindly  for  the  gate. 

From  our  Garden  we  salute  you,  Mathilde! 
Bless  us  from  yours ! 


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